Marian bent to enter the one-room hut where she would eat Christmas dinner. She had not wanted to come, but Joseph, her teenage assistant at the dispensary, was bursting with excitement when he asked her. "Mama will fix a FAT chicken, and we want you to come!"
Marian knew that no matter how fat the chicken, it wouldn't go far among 9 mouths, and hers would make 10. But she could not disappoint them, and so she said she would come on one condition. "It's an American tradition," she said. "I will come only if I can bring yams." And so it was decided.
She had wanted to stay in her own home and imagine their Christmas back at home in Iowa. Christmas without her. She didn't want to admit that she was homesick, and she was resenting this place. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and she wanted to talk to someone who spoke English! And she wanted cold, the kind of cold that felt as if needles were piercing your legs. And she wanted turkey and dressing and pecan pie and divinity candy and a Christmas tree and poinsettias, and well, she wanted the whole American Christmas.
Now in the hut her eyes began to adjust to the dimness in the room--no electricity in the Belgian Congo in 1955. She saw the Christmas cards proudly displayed around the room. Mama's was in the place of honor as a centerpiece for the table. Others were adorning the walls. Little Nicia clutched hers in her two hands.
"Merry Christmas, Nicia," Marian said as she sank to the floor and sat by the child. She looked at the card. It was a recycled American greeting card depicting the nativity. The ladies of the church back home had cut off the face of the most beautiful cards they had saved from Christmas 1954 and had carefully glued red, green, or gold paper to the back of each. Marian had written personal messages on each one though most of the people could not read.
"Tell me again about the baby Jesus," Nicia asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" Marian answered.
The child hesitated and began in Swahili, "He left his beautiful home in heaven and came to live with us. He was born in a barn, and they wrapped him up tight, and they laid him in feedbox." She looked intently at the card. Then she looked at Marian for a long time before she continued, "Was it like you leaving Iowa and coming here to live with us?"
Marian felt the tears coming, and she could not stop them. She was strong; she could run the dispensary by herself, and she could even fix the generator when it broke down, but she could not stop the tears. She was humbled and ashamed. Ashamed of her own selfishness. Ashamed of how little she really knew of God's love. At that moment she came to realize just how much God loved these humble believers, so simple and unspoiled.
When she could finally talk, she put her arm around the little girl and said, "No, Nicia, I'm afraid I'm not very much like Jesus. But I will tell you this. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you."
And it was true.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Bridge
Imagine that you are lost in the mountains. You come to a deep ravine across which is a rickety footbridge. You are exhausted and scared and hungry. You are terrified of heights, but there seems to be no choice but to try to cross. And so you decide it's your only hope.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith...
Hebrews 12:2
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Grumpy Old Man
Grumpy old man...or woman. No one wants to be one. I think anyone can avoid becoming one, but you have to start NOW. Whether you are young or old, you are becoming an old person. I don't mean to discourage you, but you are aging. And unless you die young, and we all hope that doesn't happen, you will one day be an old man or woman.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Dark December?
"I was walking through Marshall's the other day, and I saw the Christmas displays, and I began to feel that familiar dread." Someone said these words to me recently, and I knew exactly the dread he spoke of. He mentioned the pressure of buying gifts for everyone. "You don't know what to buy; you don't know what they want or need; you don't know how much to spend. If they appear to spend more on you than you do on them, you feel cheap. It's this big guessing game, and it's not fun! Then on Christmas day when everyone is saying, 'Isn't this GREAT," you envision the cash register!"
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
Monday, October 21, 2013
Perspective
A little girl at church last night was wearing a hat like the one pictured here. The hat belonged to her dad, and he had worn it when he was an active-duty Marine. I started to say when he was a Marine, but as everyone knows, there is no such thing as a former Marine.
Anyway, it occurred to me that she must think the hat a prehistoric relic. After all, it's probably at least three times as old as she is. Maybe more.
But isn't that how kids think? One of my childhood memories is that my dad had the necktie which he had worn for his wedding hanging in the coat closet. We called it his "married" tie. I remember thinking that this tie came out of ancient history, somewhere about the time the Mayflower landed. Yet, it was probably about ten or twelve years old. Now that I'm considerably older than ten or eleven, ten years seems like a very short time.
My theory is each of us marks time beginning with our own birth. For me, World War II seems like distant history. But think about this, I was born in October of 1946, and though hostilities had ceased, it was nearly a year before the Treaty of Paris was even signed! And the first time I saw the Vietnam War mentioned in a history book, I thought, "That's not history; that's current events!"
No wonder the Bible warns us about pride. Our very world view is ego centered! God surely knows this about us, hence His many warnings about being "puffed up." Not a very pretty mental picture, is it?
For
I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you,
not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to
think soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of
faith. Romans 12:3
Friday, October 4, 2013
Thelma
Thelma died this morning. You know Thelma, Irene's roommate. I went to pick her up for the Bible study, and they told me Thelma had passed early this morning and that Irene had moved upstairs. So I went upstairs and found her. And we talked. About life and eternity. We say life is short, and we know that it is, but somehow when we're going through it, it doesn't seem short.
I told her about an illustration I heard once in which someone explained that we see life in a linear way--like one long line reaching all the back to Adam and progressing to now. But God sees life as a horizontal plane stretching to the horizon in each direction. He looks down on the history of mankind, and He sees us all populating the universe at the same "time."
It does give us an empty and helpless feeling when someone we care about is just gone. I prayed with Irene; we talked some more; and then she said, "I'm looking forward to being in heaven, it's just the getting there..." Ah, yes, I know what you mean, Irene. I know what you mean.
I told her about an illustration I heard once in which someone explained that we see life in a linear way--like one long line reaching all the back to Adam and progressing to now. But God sees life as a horizontal plane stretching to the horizon in each direction. He looks down on the history of mankind, and He sees us all populating the universe at the same "time."
It does give us an empty and helpless feeling when someone we care about is just gone. I prayed with Irene; we talked some more; and then she said, "I'm looking forward to being in heaven, it's just the getting there..." Ah, yes, I know what you mean, Irene. I know what you mean.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;...
Friday, September 20, 2013
Kitchen Table Psychology
Everyone's insecure. Well, almost everyone. I haven't evaluated everyone in the whole world, but I don't think I've ever met a single person who wasn't insecure in some way. It seems to me that any time we think about a person's strange or annoying or seemingly inexplicable behavior, it comes down to insecurity. The person who makes jokes at inappropriate times probably does it because he is uncomfortable with the serious conversation or setting. The control freak is afraid his world will fly apart if he loosens his grip. The overly permissive parents fear their children won't like them; the over-protective ones are terrified that something bad will happen. Teens feel that they don't fit in, aren't dressed right, may look foolish, may be rejected, or any host of other doubts. The boisterous person may be afraid that he won't be noticed; the shy person may worry that she will be noticed and that someone will find out how unsophisticated she really is. The argumentative type probably fears that he'll be proved wrong. The snob may not speak to you because she's afraid you won't speak back. The man who spends too much money wants to make sure everyone thinks he is highly successful. The tightwad is afraid he'll go broke. We don't trust the water or the air or the government.
Somehow believing this, that everyone's insecure, helps me to accept myself, and even more I think it helps me to accept others. After all, we all have pretty much the same struggles, don't we?
Coming soon (or not) from your Kitchen Table Psychologist: everyone's nuts!
Somehow believing this, that everyone's insecure, helps me to accept myself, and even more I think it helps me to accept others. After all, we all have pretty much the same struggles, don't we?
Coming soon (or not) from your Kitchen Table Psychologist: everyone's nuts!
Friday, September 6, 2013
Irene
I looked up the name Irene today, and I found that it means peace. What a fitting name for a dear friend! I have known Irene since 1980 and have almost always found her to be true to her name.
I picked her up today for a Bible study at church, and on the way she commented that there's no peace in the world. Now that's not exactly true. Of course, there is no world peace, but Irene is a wonderful testimony that believers can indeed have peace in their hearts.
Irene lives in an "adult care facility." I would call it a nursing home, but I don't think they provide actual medical care. I imagine that most of the residents are there because they are declining both mentally and physically. Different times when I have visited Irene, I've noticed that many if not most of the people there seem very much out of it mentally. Some doze in wheel chairs. Several times I have seen the same lady sound asleep with her head on the kitchen table. Another one always greets me with great enthusiasm as if she's known me for a long, long time when in fact I've never actually met her. I've often thought how hard it must be for Irene to keep her mind sharp when so many around her provide no mental stimulus at all. And yet she remains remarkably alert. What a blessing!
Irene mentioned another thing today that caused me some thinking. She remarked that as we age, families seem to drift apart. We talked about this, and my theory is that as the generations go by, families naturally grow in number, and our roles change. For example, my mother was once just mother to four children. Three of us married so that makes 7. Then she became Grandma to 10 children making 17 offspring. Nine of those 10 each now have a spouse so that is 19 plus 17. If I'm counting correctly, those 9 couples have now produced 20 children. That means that Mom is now matriarch to a family of 56 people! It's just not practical for us to go to her home for Thanksgiving!
But do you see what happens to the elderly? They become gradually isolated from the hubbub of family life, and I'm sure they feel lonely. I find that Irene has a way of seeing life clearly and honestly, and she can accept reality. At the same time she remains remarkably cheerful! This is a wonderful blessing from God and one that is not promised to any of us. But I just have to rejoice in God's blessing to Irene and to me for having her as my friend.
I picked her up today for a Bible study at church, and on the way she commented that there's no peace in the world. Now that's not exactly true. Of course, there is no world peace, but Irene is a wonderful testimony that believers can indeed have peace in their hearts.
Irene lives in an "adult care facility." I would call it a nursing home, but I don't think they provide actual medical care. I imagine that most of the residents are there because they are declining both mentally and physically. Different times when I have visited Irene, I've noticed that many if not most of the people there seem very much out of it mentally. Some doze in wheel chairs. Several times I have seen the same lady sound asleep with her head on the kitchen table. Another one always greets me with great enthusiasm as if she's known me for a long, long time when in fact I've never actually met her. I've often thought how hard it must be for Irene to keep her mind sharp when so many around her provide no mental stimulus at all. And yet she remains remarkably alert. What a blessing!
Irene mentioned another thing today that caused me some thinking. She remarked that as we age, families seem to drift apart. We talked about this, and my theory is that as the generations go by, families naturally grow in number, and our roles change. For example, my mother was once just mother to four children. Three of us married so that makes 7. Then she became Grandma to 10 children making 17 offspring. Nine of those 10 each now have a spouse so that is 19 plus 17. If I'm counting correctly, those 9 couples have now produced 20 children. That means that Mom is now matriarch to a family of 56 people! It's just not practical for us to go to her home for Thanksgiving!
But do you see what happens to the elderly? They become gradually isolated from the hubbub of family life, and I'm sure they feel lonely. I find that Irene has a way of seeing life clearly and honestly, and she can accept reality. At the same time she remains remarkably cheerful! This is a wonderful blessing from God and one that is not promised to any of us. But I just have to rejoice in God's blessing to Irene and to me for having her as my friend.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Age Is Just a Number?
What's all this about age being just a number? Let's see. AGE is just a number. Age is JUST a number. Age is just a NUMBER. I think we put the emphasis on the "just" to show that age doesn't really matter. Actually "age" is a word, but we won't quibble. Exactly what do people mean when they say this? I'm afraid it too often means, "I am a fading celebrity, and I want to date a girl who is about the age of my granddaughter." That's creepy, and it's not what normal people like me mean.
But exactly what do I mean? And is it just a number? How much does it matter? It seems to matter most to the very young. A child who has been 12 for one day tells everyone he is almost 13. Actually, I think it always matters. This world operates in time. Even though we know we are eternal, we think in terms of time. That's all we can do, and time's important to God. The whole Bible is set in the context of time. "...and in the process of time it came to pass..." and "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:" When we're a child or teenager, we think we have lots of time. This may or may not be true. A 10-year-old may have 80 years left, or he may have 80 seconds. But the perception of the young is that they have unlimited time.
Then we reach about 40 or 45 and we think. "Whoa, my life is half over." When I was teaching, I always told my students my age. Actually, I let them figure it out by putting the year of my birth on the board. One year a little girl looked up, surprised, "Wow, you're older than my grandmother!" And so it sneaks up on us. We move a little more slowly; the knees creak; people begin to treat us differently--partially as if we are fragile and partially as if we are slow learners. Perhaps both cases are true.
I do know this. We remain the same person on the inside no matter what our age. It's interesting that my mental picture of myself hasn't changed all that much in my adult life even though the physical picture has surely changed a lot! Unlike my teenaged self, I am now aware that I may not have much time left, and I don't want to waste it!
But exactly what do I mean? And is it just a number? How much does it matter? It seems to matter most to the very young. A child who has been 12 for one day tells everyone he is almost 13. Actually, I think it always matters. This world operates in time. Even though we know we are eternal, we think in terms of time. That's all we can do, and time's important to God. The whole Bible is set in the context of time. "...and in the process of time it came to pass..." and "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:" When we're a child or teenager, we think we have lots of time. This may or may not be true. A 10-year-old may have 80 years left, or he may have 80 seconds. But the perception of the young is that they have unlimited time.
Then we reach about 40 or 45 and we think. "Whoa, my life is half over." When I was teaching, I always told my students my age. Actually, I let them figure it out by putting the year of my birth on the board. One year a little girl looked up, surprised, "Wow, you're older than my grandmother!" And so it sneaks up on us. We move a little more slowly; the knees creak; people begin to treat us differently--partially as if we are fragile and partially as if we are slow learners. Perhaps both cases are true.
I do know this. We remain the same person on the inside no matter what our age. It's interesting that my mental picture of myself hasn't changed all that much in my adult life even though the physical picture has surely changed a lot! Unlike my teenaged self, I am now aware that I may not have much time left, and I don't want to waste it!
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
The Forest
Mondays were special this summer; I watched two of my grandsons every Monday. We did not stay home even one of those Mondays but went out to find an adventure each week. We tried the various local parks for the first two or three weeks. They were OK, but we really hit on the right place when we went to the Prince William Forest Park in Triangle. Wow! What a treasure!
I had gone to Prince William Forest Park last fall with a friend for a walk. We checked in the visitor's center to pay for parking, and they told me of the best bargain you can imagine. While it costs $5 per car to park every time you visit, I could buy a lifetime senior citizen pass for $20, and it's good at all national parks! Hurray for being old!
Anyway, we started with the easiest trail which took us to the forest floor on that first day. It was rainy and very dark by the time we reached the bottom. It was still and quiet, and we didn't see another soul. Jackson commented, "Wow, this is kind of spooky." It was spooky, but we persevered, read some of the signs labeling the plants and trees: white oak, yellow poplar, Virginia pine, mountain laurel, red oak, and American beech. We learned that the forest is home to a variety of wildlife, and we saw three white-tailed deer that day. The signs told us snakes and garden spiders also live in the forest, but I am happy to report that we didn't see any.
On each return trip to the park, we tried more trails, each a little more challenging--for us--remember that we are a team of Grandmother and two little kids. On our last visit there we tried the "Laurel Loop" trail, 1.3 miles. That doesn't sound too long, but it is very steep and hard walking. We had tried it from the other end of the loop one day and turned back, not sure whether or not we had gone half way. This time we determined to finish it. So we made it all the way to the Quantico Creek at the bottom of the forest floor. We looked up at the canopy soaring above--possible 80 feet high. It was quiet except for the soft noises of birds and moving water.
I said, "God made a beautiful world. Yes, God made a beautiful world."
We successfully climbed back to the top, back to civilization. The kids played on the playground for a while, and then we started back home. I pulled onto I-95 which was traveling at a crawl because of road construction, and even with air conditioning in the car, it was hot. I began to feel tense.
Then from the back seat Elliot, age 4, said, "MawMaw?"
"Yes, Elliot."
"God made a beautiful wuwld...God made a beautiful wuwld."
"Yes, He did, Elliot. Yes, He did."
I had gone to Prince William Forest Park last fall with a friend for a walk. We checked in the visitor's center to pay for parking, and they told me of the best bargain you can imagine. While it costs $5 per car to park every time you visit, I could buy a lifetime senior citizen pass for $20, and it's good at all national parks! Hurray for being old!
Anyway, we started with the easiest trail which took us to the forest floor on that first day. It was rainy and very dark by the time we reached the bottom. It was still and quiet, and we didn't see another soul. Jackson commented, "Wow, this is kind of spooky." It was spooky, but we persevered, read some of the signs labeling the plants and trees: white oak, yellow poplar, Virginia pine, mountain laurel, red oak, and American beech. We learned that the forest is home to a variety of wildlife, and we saw three white-tailed deer that day. The signs told us snakes and garden spiders also live in the forest, but I am happy to report that we didn't see any.
On each return trip to the park, we tried more trails, each a little more challenging--for us--remember that we are a team of Grandmother and two little kids. On our last visit there we tried the "Laurel Loop" trail, 1.3 miles. That doesn't sound too long, but it is very steep and hard walking. We had tried it from the other end of the loop one day and turned back, not sure whether or not we had gone half way. This time we determined to finish it. So we made it all the way to the Quantico Creek at the bottom of the forest floor. We looked up at the canopy soaring above--possible 80 feet high. It was quiet except for the soft noises of birds and moving water.
I said, "God made a beautiful world. Yes, God made a beautiful world."
We successfully climbed back to the top, back to civilization. The kids played on the playground for a while, and then we started back home. I pulled onto I-95 which was traveling at a crawl because of road construction, and even with air conditioning in the car, it was hot. I began to feel tense.
Then from the back seat Elliot, age 4, said, "MawMaw?"
"Yes, Elliot."
"God made a beautiful wuwld...God made a beautiful wuwld."
"Yes, He did, Elliot. Yes, He did."
Thursday, July 4, 2013
The Fifth of July
Many years ago after our annual family 4th of July picnic and after-dark fireworks, I spent the night with my Uncle Dick, his dad, and his grandma. His dad was my Grandpa Dobson, and his grandma was my Great- Grandma Dobson. As I recall I was about 7 at the time, and Dick was 12. Being older, smarter, and more sophisticated than I, he came up with the ideas for our entertainment. To that end he had saved a few firecrackers from the night before. They were the type that were in a strip--each one-inch fire-cracker attached to the next with paper. We considered them harmless. I'm sure they were intended to be pulled apart and lighted one at a time, but everyone knows you get a bigger bang if you leave 2 or 3 together. If you are 12 and fearless, you might even light the whole strip at once.
Well, Dick's plan for this July 5 was to climb to the second floor of the large square farm house, go out onto the upper porch, attach a fire cracker (or a small strip of fire crackers) to a fish hook attached to a fishing line and pole. Step 2 was to light the fire cracker(s) and then, using the fishing pole, reel out the lighted weapon over the bannister down to scare Rex, the dog, napping on the stoop below.
Genius! Dick was the master trickster, and I was his assistant.
We gathered the necessary equipment and crept through the dim upstairs bedroom onto the seldom-used porch. The bannister was fairly high, and so to get a glimpse of the sleeping Rex, I had to stand with my bare feet on a holey, musty, green army blanket which was crumpled in the corner. We peered over the edge and took a look at Rex. We giggled at the prospect of scaring the living daylights out of him.
I don't know if you realize this or not, but the fuse on those little fire crackers is not long, and Dick's first few attempts at the plan resulted in premature explosions. Each time a blast went off, I imagined that my legs were being burned or pierced. I shrieked for him to stop. He took one look at my legs and yelled, "Yellow jackets!" At that, we tore through the door, raced through the upstairs, and thundered screaming down the stairs. We crashed through the door at the bottom of the stairs in the following order: Dick, me, and the bees.
The sound effects were largely lost on Grandma Dobson, who was essentially deaf, sitting in the kitchen with her crochet hook and thread. She must have felt the vibrations from our wild stampede down the stairs though because she didn't seem surprised. But she was mad, even madder than the bees. Being a near invalid, she moved very slowly and painstakingly and spent most of her days sitting in a chair. However, she was quite well enough to scold Dick roundly and remind him that he should KNOW better!
This lecture didn't rescue us as we were still under attack from the ill-tempered bees which we had disturbed from their home in the army blanket. Though it takes me a long time to stop the hysterics after such an experience, and Grandma Dobson was no help, Dick and I somehow managed to get outside to the back step where we were able to defeat some of the enemy and drive off the rest, catch our breath, and doctor our wounds.
Rex, meanwhile, dozed contentedly--the living daylights still safely within him.
Genius! Dick was the master trickster, and I was his assistant.
We gathered the necessary equipment and crept through the dim upstairs bedroom onto the seldom-used porch. The bannister was fairly high, and so to get a glimpse of the sleeping Rex, I had to stand with my bare feet on a holey, musty, green army blanket which was crumpled in the corner. We peered over the edge and took a look at Rex. We giggled at the prospect of scaring the living daylights out of him.
I don't know if you realize this or not, but the fuse on those little fire crackers is not long, and Dick's first few attempts at the plan resulted in premature explosions. Each time a blast went off, I imagined that my legs were being burned or pierced. I shrieked for him to stop. He took one look at my legs and yelled, "Yellow jackets!" At that, we tore through the door, raced through the upstairs, and thundered screaming down the stairs. We crashed through the door at the bottom of the stairs in the following order: Dick, me, and the bees.
The sound effects were largely lost on Grandma Dobson, who was essentially deaf, sitting in the kitchen with her crochet hook and thread. She must have felt the vibrations from our wild stampede down the stairs though because she didn't seem surprised. But she was mad, even madder than the bees. Being a near invalid, she moved very slowly and painstakingly and spent most of her days sitting in a chair. However, she was quite well enough to scold Dick roundly and remind him that he should KNOW better!
This lecture didn't rescue us as we were still under attack from the ill-tempered bees which we had disturbed from their home in the army blanket. Though it takes me a long time to stop the hysterics after such an experience, and Grandma Dobson was no help, Dick and I somehow managed to get outside to the back step where we were able to defeat some of the enemy and drive off the rest, catch our breath, and doctor our wounds.
Rex, meanwhile, dozed contentedly--the living daylights still safely within him.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Little Pitchers Have Big Ears
Have you ever heard the expression "little pitchers have big ears"? I was reminded of it recently and looked up some information about it which I have copied and pasted here.
http://word-ancestry.livejournal.com/50599.html
little pitchers have big ears,
-This English expression refers to little children overhearing and understanding more conversations than their parents might think. The allusion is to the ear-like handles often found on smaller pitchers. This phrase appears to be rather old, dating at least back to early 16th century England but likely even earlier. One of the first written records we have of it is found in the fifth chapter of part two of John Heywood's Proverbes (1546 C.E.): "Auoyd your children: smal pitchers haue wyde eares." We also see it used in Shakespeare's Richard III about half a century later.
I was reminded of this proverb recently in the toddler nursery. Marjorie came in for Sunday school and explained to me that Evelyn, her two-year-old daughter, was not wearing pull-ups but underwear and would I please take her to the potty sometime during the hour. And so I asked Evelyn, and I took her to the bathroom. When Sunday school was over, I explained the situation to the children's church worker Dorothy. After church I was in the hallway outside the nursery, and I overheard Marjorie and Dorothy discussing how the potty scene went. For your information, there were no accidents in Sunday school or church.
That evening I was again in the toddler nursery. I had only two children to watch: Evelyn and a little three-year-old boy named Lawrence. The three of us were sitting at the low toddler table concentrating on play doh creations when Lawrence asked, "Ebewyn, are you weering puw-ups or unda-weer?" Evelyn, who doesn't talk much, calmly answered "unda-weer."
I smiled at the sweet innocence of this exchange, but I thought later that not one of us was really aware that all the children heard multiple conversations about the status of Evelyn's potty training. It was a reminder to me that even very small children have little brain recorders, continually recording all the conversations going on around them. Furthermore, they are good multi-taskers: playing, chattering, and recording all at once. And don't forget that if they can record it, they can play it back!
Monday, July 1, 2013
Awfulize and Catastrophize
She was standing in the pew near the back of the auditorium with a tense air about her, like a cat ready to pounce. She had deep creases between her eyes and downward-turning lines around her mouth. I knew I would speak to her. I also knew I wouldn't ask her how she was doing, but she would tell me anyway. "My boss cut my hours again. Down to 10 hours a week, and I can't live on 10 hours a week. And Deborah won't call me; I haven't seen my grandsons in a year. For all she knows, I'm dead and gone."
"Maybe you should call her?" I ventured.
"Why should I call her? She doesn't want to hear from me. I've tried. She doesn't take my calls."
"Oh."
"I'll be homeless by the end of the month. No money to pay the lot rent." She narrowed her eyes and leaned slightly toward me.
Just then Sam Evans breezed by and said, "You're awfulizing, Doris. Stop awfulizing!"
Awfulizing? What a great word. It was the first time I had heard it, but I knew exactly what it meant. Awfulize and its ominous cousin, catastrophize--what great made-up words. In fact, I have practiced these myself. These verbs have not made it into the Oxford English Dictionary, but I looked them up on urbandictionary.com, and they indeed exist in popular culture and, I assume, in common experience.
Many years ago I suffered a panic attack, the only one I've ever had, and I can tell you I don't want another. It was on a Saturday afternoon, and I hadn't been well. My husband took to children to play tennis. I lay on the bed and thought, "What if they have an accident? They will have an accident! No. I'll think about something else. Why can't I think about anything else?"
My heart began to pound, and I could barely breathe. I didn't want to stay in bed, but I was afraid to get up.
"They're not going to die, but I'm going crazy. What if I go crazy? My children will have to tell their friends their mother is in an insane asylum."
I call this extreme awfulizing or in this case catastrophizing. Though I don't regularly experience panic attacks, thank goodness, I'm afraid I do practice awfulizing far more than I should. One negative thought is followed by a worse one. Why do I do this? Why do we do this? Why do we torture ourselves like this? I believe it is a result of not trusting God. And how do we come to trust God? Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. OK, so I hear the Word of God, but am I listening?
The following words from our heavenly Father are beautifully translated in the King James Version, and I can't improve on them by commenting, and so I must just listen.
Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
--Matthew 6:25-34
"Maybe you should call her?" I ventured.
"Why should I call her? She doesn't want to hear from me. I've tried. She doesn't take my calls."
"Oh."
"I'll be homeless by the end of the month. No money to pay the lot rent." She narrowed her eyes and leaned slightly toward me.
Just then Sam Evans breezed by and said, "You're awfulizing, Doris. Stop awfulizing!"
Awfulizing? What a great word. It was the first time I had heard it, but I knew exactly what it meant. Awfulize and its ominous cousin, catastrophize--what great made-up words. In fact, I have practiced these myself. These verbs have not made it into the Oxford English Dictionary, but I looked them up on urbandictionary.com, and they indeed exist in popular culture and, I assume, in common experience.
Many years ago I suffered a panic attack, the only one I've ever had, and I can tell you I don't want another. It was on a Saturday afternoon, and I hadn't been well. My husband took to children to play tennis. I lay on the bed and thought, "What if they have an accident? They will have an accident! No. I'll think about something else. Why can't I think about anything else?"
My heart began to pound, and I could barely breathe. I didn't want to stay in bed, but I was afraid to get up.
"They're not going to die, but I'm going crazy. What if I go crazy? My children will have to tell their friends their mother is in an insane asylum."
I call this extreme awfulizing or in this case catastrophizing. Though I don't regularly experience panic attacks, thank goodness, I'm afraid I do practice awfulizing far more than I should. One negative thought is followed by a worse one. Why do I do this? Why do we do this? Why do we torture ourselves like this? I believe it is a result of not trusting God. And how do we come to trust God? Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. OK, so I hear the Word of God, but am I listening?
The following words from our heavenly Father are beautifully translated in the King James Version, and I can't improve on them by commenting, and so I must just listen.
Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
--Matthew 6:25-34
Saturday, June 22, 2013
I Shouldn't Say This
"It's probably none of my business, but..." This is how I started an email message last week. I went on to a carefully worded message in which I tried to deceive myself that I was doing the right thing. I finished, proof-read it, hesitated. "Well, Barbara, is it your business or not?" I deleted the message. Any comment that starts with "It's none of my business,but..." is probably best left unsaid. How about "I really shouldn't...say this...push the snooze button...buy these shoes...eat this pie...watch this program." If you shouldn't, you shouldn't!
How about this one, "If I tell you something, will you promise not to repeat it?" Don't say it and don't listen to it! And above everything, don't promise because it's a promise you likely can't or won't keep. Imagine that the person is going to tell you about a bomb plot, or an assassination scheme, or that he or she is practicing child abuse. Some secrets should not be kept. And when you are tempted to reveal a secret, forbidding your friend to disclose it, think of it this way: If you don't have the discipline to keep the secret, why should you expect your friend to?
Imagine a conversation like this: Mary Ellen comes to me and says, "Don't ever tell her I told you, but Glenda said your grandchildren are not very well behaved--actually she called them brats. I just thought you should know."
I probably wouldn't have the courage to do this, but what I should do in such a setting is to say, "Really? I'm surprised! After all, no kids are better, sweeter, kinder, not to mention smarter than my grandchildren! You know what? I have Glenda's number right here in my cell phone; I think I'll give her a call right now and ask her about this."
Mary Ellen is going to back peddle for sure. Glenda is going to deny that she ever thought such a thing, let alone said it. She is also going to be not a little miffed with Mary Ellen who will never again come to me with such drivel. Success all around!
But what if Mary Ellen refused to disclose that it was Glenda who made such an absurd (from my point of view) assertion. What if she said, "People are saying..."
Then I must say, "Which people is that?"
"Oh, I really couldn't break that confidence." Mary Ellen responds.
I say, "Well, then I have to assume that you, yourself are the people!"
Case closed.
Proverbs is an endless source of advice when it comes to good common sense, including how to control my tongue. I will pick just one small passage to conclude: He that hideth hatred with lying lips, and he that uttereth a slander, is a fool. In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise. Proverbs 10:18-19
How about this one, "If I tell you something, will you promise not to repeat it?" Don't say it and don't listen to it! And above everything, don't promise because it's a promise you likely can't or won't keep. Imagine that the person is going to tell you about a bomb plot, or an assassination scheme, or that he or she is practicing child abuse. Some secrets should not be kept. And when you are tempted to reveal a secret, forbidding your friend to disclose it, think of it this way: If you don't have the discipline to keep the secret, why should you expect your friend to?
Imagine a conversation like this: Mary Ellen comes to me and says, "Don't ever tell her I told you, but Glenda said your grandchildren are not very well behaved--actually she called them brats. I just thought you should know."
I probably wouldn't have the courage to do this, but what I should do in such a setting is to say, "Really? I'm surprised! After all, no kids are better, sweeter, kinder, not to mention smarter than my grandchildren! You know what? I have Glenda's number right here in my cell phone; I think I'll give her a call right now and ask her about this."
Mary Ellen is going to back peddle for sure. Glenda is going to deny that she ever thought such a thing, let alone said it. She is also going to be not a little miffed with Mary Ellen who will never again come to me with such drivel. Success all around!
But what if Mary Ellen refused to disclose that it was Glenda who made such an absurd (from my point of view) assertion. What if she said, "People are saying..."
Then I must say, "Which people is that?"
"Oh, I really couldn't break that confidence." Mary Ellen responds.
I say, "Well, then I have to assume that you, yourself are the people!"
Case closed.
Proverbs is an endless source of advice when it comes to good common sense, including how to control my tongue. I will pick just one small passage to conclude: He that hideth hatred with lying lips, and he that uttereth a slander, is a fool. In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise. Proverbs 10:18-19
Friday, June 21, 2013
Kid Perspective
I recently heard a podcast of the radio program, This American Life, entitled "Kid Logic." http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/188/kid-logic
I liked the program and the title. This American Life is produced by WBEZ Chicago and distributed by Public Radio International.
Since hearing that title I've been thinking about a kid's perspective on a lot of things. I remember as a child one of the chores that my two brothers and I had was washing dishes. Since there were three of us, we were on a rotating schedule; each night we would rotate like volleyball. One would wash and rinse; one would dry; one would put away. I can remember how hard we thought this job was and how much we hated it. Slave labor! Haven't you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? Lincoln freed the slaves.
Another kid perspective that is out of whack is the matter of fear. As a child I was afraid of any number of things that are no real threat at all. For example, after seeing my uncle's comic books, I was afraid of dinosaurs. You know the type that crush cities and carry off pretty girls. Now really. When was a little girl in Iowa threatened by a real dinosaur? No time recently.
Occasionally, we would get reports of panther or mountain lion sightings. As far as I know, these were pretty much unsubstantiated, but they gave my imagination a starting point. I imagined a panther in the oak tree outside my bedroom window. We had a double porch on the front of the big square farm house. The second story of the porch was outside my room, and so it was a very easy leap from the tree to the porch and then the cat could climb right in the window and pounce on me in the bed! I thought of closing the window, but then I was afraid I wouldn't be able to hear him coming. Also, I didn't dare sleep without covers. I mean wouldn't you rather have something, even a sheet, between you and a panther?
And then there's the matter of worry. Kids don't know how to process information, especially overheard information. Dad was a worrier, and he verbalized every worry that flitted through his head. Now that I think of it, most of these worries had something to do with things over which he had no control, and they all had to do with farming. Not enough rain, too much rain, too hot and dry, too cool and rainy, corn prices in the tank, cattle prices plummeting. As a result, I worried too that we were inching toward bankruptcy. I now know the truth was that we were solidly middle class and probably in much better shape than many of our neighbors since my parents were conservative--though not tight--about spending.
Parents can help assuage some of these torturous fears. Reassurance helps, but to be honest, no matter how many times my parents insisted that no dinosaurs roamed the great plains, I was still afraid. I honestly believe these irrational fears are something the child himself must come to terms with. Regarding the work problem; well, maturity teaches us to put that into perspective. Once we have real responsibility, we know how easy we had it as kids. As for the issue of worry, I think parents should be careful not to verbalize their own worries within kids' hearing. And most important, children should be taught the scripture, and they should see their parents sincerely trust God for everyday needs.
...the Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:5-7 (NIV)
I liked the program and the title. This American Life is produced by WBEZ Chicago and distributed by Public Radio International.
Since hearing that title I've been thinking about a kid's perspective on a lot of things. I remember as a child one of the chores that my two brothers and I had was washing dishes. Since there were three of us, we were on a rotating schedule; each night we would rotate like volleyball. One would wash and rinse; one would dry; one would put away. I can remember how hard we thought this job was and how much we hated it. Slave labor! Haven't you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? Lincoln freed the slaves.
Another kid perspective that is out of whack is the matter of fear. As a child I was afraid of any number of things that are no real threat at all. For example, after seeing my uncle's comic books, I was afraid of dinosaurs. You know the type that crush cities and carry off pretty girls. Now really. When was a little girl in Iowa threatened by a real dinosaur? No time recently.
Occasionally, we would get reports of panther or mountain lion sightings. As far as I know, these were pretty much unsubstantiated, but they gave my imagination a starting point. I imagined a panther in the oak tree outside my bedroom window. We had a double porch on the front of the big square farm house. The second story of the porch was outside my room, and so it was a very easy leap from the tree to the porch and then the cat could climb right in the window and pounce on me in the bed! I thought of closing the window, but then I was afraid I wouldn't be able to hear him coming. Also, I didn't dare sleep without covers. I mean wouldn't you rather have something, even a sheet, between you and a panther?
And then there's the matter of worry. Kids don't know how to process information, especially overheard information. Dad was a worrier, and he verbalized every worry that flitted through his head. Now that I think of it, most of these worries had something to do with things over which he had no control, and they all had to do with farming. Not enough rain, too much rain, too hot and dry, too cool and rainy, corn prices in the tank, cattle prices plummeting. As a result, I worried too that we were inching toward bankruptcy. I now know the truth was that we were solidly middle class and probably in much better shape than many of our neighbors since my parents were conservative--though not tight--about spending.
Parents can help assuage some of these torturous fears. Reassurance helps, but to be honest, no matter how many times my parents insisted that no dinosaurs roamed the great plains, I was still afraid. I honestly believe these irrational fears are something the child himself must come to terms with. Regarding the work problem; well, maturity teaches us to put that into perspective. Once we have real responsibility, we know how easy we had it as kids. As for the issue of worry, I think parents should be careful not to verbalize their own worries within kids' hearing. And most important, children should be taught the scripture, and they should see their parents sincerely trust God for everyday needs.
...the Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:5-7 (NIV)
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The Perfect Father
Several years ago on Father's Day, I was sitting at my usual post at the organ. I took a peek at the congregation, and I noticed a young woman's face--pale and solemn. I happened to know, by her own testimony to the ladies of our church, that she had been the victim of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of her father. I wanted to cry. In fact, I still get that feeling behind my eyes and throat when I think of the incident today.
Not all dads are worthy of praise.
I think of another young woman who was raised an only child by a single mother. As far as I know, her biological father was absent--physically, emotionally, even financially--from her life. Perhaps because of this missing piece in her early years, she has made a series of bad choices regarding men.
For all practical purposes some people didn't have a dad.
And then there is the matter of my two daughters in law. One, Jordan, lost her father to cancer when she was a child of twelve. This was a devastating loss at a time when her whole security depended on her parents. The other one, Kelly, lost her dad to cancer a mere year ago right around Father's Day. Though older than Jordan's dad, he was not an old man.
Some dads are definitely worthy of our honor, and we miss them!
If you have a wonderful father and he is still with you, you should honor him today. If your dad is gone from this life, I think it is good to reflect on the blessings he brought. But today what I really want to emphasize is that if you have been born again, if you are God's child, you have the perfect Father. Actually, He has qualities that your earthly father, no matter how honorable, cannot have. He created you and He knows all about you; He is wise and good; He hears you at any time of the day or night; He has the resources to supply your every need; He has the power to forgive you, and He never holds your sins against you; in fact, He is all-powerful; and He loves you unconditionally.
Did you know that God has given you the greatest Father's Day gift? In Ephesians 2, Paul reminds us that we were disobedient, obnoxious children,
but God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, Even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ, (by grace ye are saved;) And hath raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus: That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus. For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.
Happy Father's Day!
Not all dads are worthy of praise.
I think of another young woman who was raised an only child by a single mother. As far as I know, her biological father was absent--physically, emotionally, even financially--from her life. Perhaps because of this missing piece in her early years, she has made a series of bad choices regarding men.
For all practical purposes some people didn't have a dad.
And then there is the matter of my two daughters in law. One, Jordan, lost her father to cancer when she was a child of twelve. This was a devastating loss at a time when her whole security depended on her parents. The other one, Kelly, lost her dad to cancer a mere year ago right around Father's Day. Though older than Jordan's dad, he was not an old man.
Some dads are definitely worthy of our honor, and we miss them!
If you have a wonderful father and he is still with you, you should honor him today. If your dad is gone from this life, I think it is good to reflect on the blessings he brought. But today what I really want to emphasize is that if you have been born again, if you are God's child, you have the perfect Father. Actually, He has qualities that your earthly father, no matter how honorable, cannot have. He created you and He knows all about you; He is wise and good; He hears you at any time of the day or night; He has the resources to supply your every need; He has the power to forgive you, and He never holds your sins against you; in fact, He is all-powerful; and He loves you unconditionally.
Did you know that God has given you the greatest Father's Day gift? In Ephesians 2, Paul reminds us that we were disobedient, obnoxious children,
but God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, Even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ, (by grace ye are saved;) And hath raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus: That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus. For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.
Happy Father's Day!
Friday, June 7, 2013
No, Never, No Way
We've all known people who are chronically negative--those who hate everything and approve of nothing.
I think of a childhood friend whom I'll call Margaret. Actually, she was not a friend I chose. You might say we were friends by circumstance. I didn't realize at the time that a person can actually choose his friends. You see, Margaret and I were about the same age. Our families attended the same country church, so we were placed together in Sunday school classes and other church activities. Margaret stuck to me as if by static electricity, impossible to shake loose. She wanted to be my only friend; she was offended when I expressed a need for a little space. In fact, she was pretty much offended about a lot of things. She wanted me to spend every Sunday afternoon with her and her family. I really didn't want to do this, but every Sunday she would drag me to my mother, "Please, please, please, p-u-l-e-e-e-z? Can she come?" In my head I was secretly begging my mother to say no. Sometimes she did say no. Somehow it never occurred to me to tell Mom privately that I really did not want to spend my Sundays with Margaret, that I really didn't want to be around her at all. Instead, I just hoped every Sunday that she would not show up.
Though I was a reluctant friend, Margaret filled my mind with news. I learned from her that the Pastor and Sunday school teachers were mostly hypocrites, and furthermore, they were inferior to workers in other churches. And didn't I know that church camp was a place where all sorts of dangers lurked, from the maggot-infested food to the showers contaminated with athlete's foot? She reported to me that the Baileys stayed home on Sunday nights to play cards instead of coming to church. She revealed that the Pastor's daughter, Annabel Kettell, with her creamy white skin and luxurious red hair, secretly smoked, and worse, she went to the skating rink on Saturday nights and flirted with boys! She made sure I noticed that the Halversons and Lowrys always sat in the same pew, and sometimes Ray Halverson would sit next to Marie Lowry. This wouldn't have been so bad, but listen to this--sometimes they (Mr. Halverson and Mrs. Lowry) would hold hands in the darkened sanctuary during missionary slides!
Now, more than 50 years later, I still remember all this gossip in vivid detail. Since I know you are wondering, I will tell you how it all looks to me now. I don't believe the Pastor and Sunday school teachers were any more hypocritical than anyone else then or now, including myself. I attended church camp for many years and did not once see a maggot in the food nor did I contract athlete's foot. I'm pretty sure the Baileys did indeed stay home on Sunday nights to play cards; I know for certain they were rarely in church. I couldn't say whether or not Annabel Kettell smoked, though I doubt it, but I personally witnessed some shameless flirting. Since I did not have night-vision goggles, I am not able to return a verdict on the alleged Halverson-Lowry tryst.
Now that I reflect on it, we have had several "Margarets" in our church over the years--porcupines who hate everything and are quite willing to use their negative quills. I recognize them from the organ by the wrinkled brow, the stubborn jaw, the disapproving look. Sometimes they grumble under their breath during services and whisper in the hallways or talk in low tones in the parking lot. Nothing is quite right. Their presence even distracts me when I listen to the sermons. "Oh, no. Margaret's not going to like this!" They have their set of unwritten rules, and we are breaking all of them. They make me feel much the way Margaret did so long ago. I just want them to GO AWAY.
Church porcupines don't usually stay forever, but they often stay a long time, wounding others with their needle-like weapons. Did you know that the word "porcupine" means "one who rises up in anger"? I must say at this point that I'm not sure this analogy is entirely fair to the rodent version of the porcupine. According to a website entitled "7 Prickly Facts About Porcupines," they, unlike their church counterparts, are not aggressive, and they use their quills as a defense against predators. Scientists tell us the only defense against a porcupine is to avoid him.
Is avoidance the scriptural way to deal with negative people? I now believe we should do what I should have done all those years ago. We should tell them that we don't want to hear it, and we should go to our Heavenly Parent and tell Him the truth. As children, we as individuals have very little control over our circumstances. As adults, we have more choices, but sometimes only the Father can solve our problems. What does the Bible say about all this?
Solomon had some sage comments on this and six other things God hates. "Hates" is a strong word when applied to God Himself. Yet Proverbs 6 tells us, These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren. Wow! Margaret was guilty of nearly all these, and I was not far behind by listening to it!
Getting back to the scripture, God reminds us of something similar in the New Testament, just in case we missed it in the Old. If any man teach otherwise, and consent not to wholesome words, even the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the doctrine which is according to godliness; He is proud, knowing nothing, but doting about questions and strifes of words, whereof cometh envy, strife, railings, evil surmising, Perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself. 1 Timothy 6:3-5
I can safely conclude that when we encounter those porcupines, as we most surely will, we must realize that this is behavior that God hates, and we must duly withdraw ourselves from them.
I think of a childhood friend whom I'll call Margaret. Actually, she was not a friend I chose. You might say we were friends by circumstance. I didn't realize at the time that a person can actually choose his friends. You see, Margaret and I were about the same age. Our families attended the same country church, so we were placed together in Sunday school classes and other church activities. Margaret stuck to me as if by static electricity, impossible to shake loose. She wanted to be my only friend; she was offended when I expressed a need for a little space. In fact, she was pretty much offended about a lot of things. She wanted me to spend every Sunday afternoon with her and her family. I really didn't want to do this, but every Sunday she would drag me to my mother, "Please, please, please, p-u-l-e-e-e-z? Can she come?" In my head I was secretly begging my mother to say no. Sometimes she did say no. Somehow it never occurred to me to tell Mom privately that I really did not want to spend my Sundays with Margaret, that I really didn't want to be around her at all. Instead, I just hoped every Sunday that she would not show up.
Though I was a reluctant friend, Margaret filled my mind with news. I learned from her that the Pastor and Sunday school teachers were mostly hypocrites, and furthermore, they were inferior to workers in other churches. And didn't I know that church camp was a place where all sorts of dangers lurked, from the maggot-infested food to the showers contaminated with athlete's foot? She reported to me that the Baileys stayed home on Sunday nights to play cards instead of coming to church. She revealed that the Pastor's daughter, Annabel Kettell, with her creamy white skin and luxurious red hair, secretly smoked, and worse, she went to the skating rink on Saturday nights and flirted with boys! She made sure I noticed that the Halversons and Lowrys always sat in the same pew, and sometimes Ray Halverson would sit next to Marie Lowry. This wouldn't have been so bad, but listen to this--sometimes they (Mr. Halverson and Mrs. Lowry) would hold hands in the darkened sanctuary during missionary slides!
Now, more than 50 years later, I still remember all this gossip in vivid detail. Since I know you are wondering, I will tell you how it all looks to me now. I don't believe the Pastor and Sunday school teachers were any more hypocritical than anyone else then or now, including myself. I attended church camp for many years and did not once see a maggot in the food nor did I contract athlete's foot. I'm pretty sure the Baileys did indeed stay home on Sunday nights to play cards; I know for certain they were rarely in church. I couldn't say whether or not Annabel Kettell smoked, though I doubt it, but I personally witnessed some shameless flirting. Since I did not have night-vision goggles, I am not able to return a verdict on the alleged Halverson-Lowry tryst.
Now that I reflect on it, we have had several "Margarets" in our church over the years--porcupines who hate everything and are quite willing to use their negative quills. I recognize them from the organ by the wrinkled brow, the stubborn jaw, the disapproving look. Sometimes they grumble under their breath during services and whisper in the hallways or talk in low tones in the parking lot. Nothing is quite right. Their presence even distracts me when I listen to the sermons. "Oh, no. Margaret's not going to like this!" They have their set of unwritten rules, and we are breaking all of them. They make me feel much the way Margaret did so long ago. I just want them to GO AWAY.
Church porcupines don't usually stay forever, but they often stay a long time, wounding others with their needle-like weapons. Did you know that the word "porcupine" means "one who rises up in anger"? I must say at this point that I'm not sure this analogy is entirely fair to the rodent version of the porcupine. According to a website entitled "7 Prickly Facts About Porcupines," they, unlike their church counterparts, are not aggressive, and they use their quills as a defense against predators. Scientists tell us the only defense against a porcupine is to avoid him.
Is avoidance the scriptural way to deal with negative people? I now believe we should do what I should have done all those years ago. We should tell them that we don't want to hear it, and we should go to our Heavenly Parent and tell Him the truth. As children, we as individuals have very little control over our circumstances. As adults, we have more choices, but sometimes only the Father can solve our problems. What does the Bible say about all this?
Solomon had some sage comments on this and six other things God hates. "Hates" is a strong word when applied to God Himself. Yet Proverbs 6 tells us, These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren. Wow! Margaret was guilty of nearly all these, and I was not far behind by listening to it!
Getting back to the scripture, God reminds us of something similar in the New Testament, just in case we missed it in the Old. If any man teach otherwise, and consent not to wholesome words, even the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the doctrine which is according to godliness; He is proud, knowing nothing, but doting about questions and strifes of words, whereof cometh envy, strife, railings, evil surmising, Perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself. 1 Timothy 6:3-5
I can safely conclude that when we encounter those porcupines, as we most surely will, we must realize that this is behavior that God hates, and we must duly withdraw ourselves from them.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
The Longest Father's Day
My brother never calls me, so when my phone rings on
Thursday, June 9, 2011, and the caller ID tells me it’s Mark, I know this is
not good. “We’ve taken him off all his medicine; he’s not eating or drinking,
and he’s getting dehydrated. No urine output to speak of, and they say the
increased mottling in his knees and feet looks ominous. They say he can’t last
long like this. Maybe you ought to come.” He is talking about my dad, and you
should know that I come from a family who is not given to overstatement, so his
request could be interpreted, “If you’re comin', you better get here NOW!”
Knowing
this is likely the end, I get on the internet and order a plane ticket for
Cedar Rapids, Iowa, for Friday, June 10. I pack a bag, including funeral
clothes; Mickey takes me to Reagan, and I’m off. I arrive at O’Hare right on
time at 12:39 pm. I look at the itinerary, and whew! I have time to use the
bathroom and easily make it to Gate L5 for my 2:53 departure. I settle into
place, take a deep breath, and wait. It gets to be about 2:45, and no American
Airlines person is in sight, but a sign goes up saying Flight delayed,
scheduled departure time 4:10. Oh boy! I take a walk, try to read a little,
pray a little, buy a bottle of water, and sit back down. I look around and see
a few travelers who look like they could be going to Cedar Rapids. I make eye
contact with a kind looking young woman about the age of my daughter, and I ask,
“Are you going to Cedar Rapids?” “I hope so” is her response.
By now
it’s 3:45, and still American Airlines personnel are conspicuously absent.
Another sign goes up. Flight delayed. New departure time: 5:21. I begin to feel
emotional. “What if they cancel this flight? I’ll sit here all night. I am NOT
going out into this jungle to find a hotel room! Lord, please don’t let him die
while I’m stuck in Chicago.” I call Mark who tells me Sharon is already in
Cedar Rapids, but not to worry, she’ll spend some time with Nicole.
I notice
the Cedar Rapids lady watching me, and she finally asks if I’m OK. In my head I
shout, “No, I’m not OK. My Dad is probably going to die while I’m stuck in this
stupid airport!" I didn’t say that or anything like that, and I most certainly
did not shout, but I did tell her my story. A little tearfully, I might add. We
talk a little, and she tells me her name is Leah Wilsson and that she is a fund
raiser for the National Czech & Slovak Museum &
Library in Cedar Rapids.
Together
we notice that at last an official looking person in a blue uniform arrives at
the desk. I ask him when I can expect to get home. He, as if talking to a
child, carefully explains that the flight may be cancelled due to maintenance
issues. “MAINTENANCE ISSUES? Are you crazy? You expect me to believe that? I
know how you operate. You’ve sold exactly 6 tickets to Cedar Rapids, and you
don’t want to fly this crate for 6 paying customers so you find some mechanic
with an oilcan, send him out to squint at the engine and squirt some oil on it.
That’s what I know you’re doing!” I think all of this; I say none of it.
Instead
I sit down. Leah has watched this drama unfold. She comes, sits beside me, and
explains, “My daughter’s birthday party is tomorrow, and I don’t plan to miss
it. If they cancel this flight, I’m going to rent a car and drive to Cedar
Rapids, and you are more than welcome to ride with me.” I nod, “Thank you.”
Before
we settle on this plan, we, along with a few other Iowans, are shuttled to
another gate with the hope that we can get a flight to Cedar Rapids. That hope
dies too, but a lady approaches Leah and says, “I couldn’t help but overhear
your plans to rent a car. Is there any chance that my son and I could catch a
ride too? We’ll help with the cost? I am a professor at the University of Iowa
and this is my son who is a student.” Leah looks uncertainly at me. “Are you OK
with that?”
I glance
sidelong at them. “Well, if they’re axe murderers, I guess I’ll arrive in
heaven at about the same time as my dad.” And so I say, “If you’re Ok, I’m OK.”
20
minutes later, the fearless Leah puts her phone, tuned to the GPS, on the dash
board of a Buick LaCrosse, and we head west--the professor, the student, Leah
Wilsson, and me. We commiserate on the
problem of traveling to small towns; we rehearse the scourge of a company like
American Airlines; the professor and I
solve the problems of the field of education; the student shows me some cool
things on my new I-phone. I tell Leah
that my maiden name is Kouba and that I am a bona-fide Bohemie, and we talk
about the museum, kolachies and other ethnic foods. Our conversation drifts to healthy food and organic gardening. I learn that in some small cities, residents can
now keep hens. No roosters, of course, and we all agree that city dwellers
would never tolerate pre-dawn crowing! The time passes quickly, and just before
11 we pull into a deserted Wal-mart parking lot, where the ever-patient Sharon
is waiting for me.
She
deposits me at the door of my childhood home at about midnight. The house is
dark, but the door is unlocked, and I slip in. From the hospital bed in the
living room, I hear a feeble voice calling my name. Dad is waiting up for me! Just
like the old days! I hold his hand and kiss his forehead goodnight. We hold no
conversation tonight because, as everyone knows, Dad is stone deaf without his hearing
aid! Apparently he had seen the car lights when Sharon brought me home.
The next
day is Saturday and when I get up, I see my brothers, Mark and Alan, Mom, and
Dad in his wheel chair all sitting at the kitchen table. We exchange greetings,
and then Dad announces, “I think I could eat something.” O-k-a-a-y! Mom fixes
oatmeal, and he does indeed eat it. But we know what’s happening. Terminal
patients often rally at the very end, act energetic, sit up and talk to loved
ones, and all that. This must be what’s happening. But to our surprise, Dad is
hungry for dinner too, and then supper, and then every meal for days! His color
returns, his skin perks up, his eyes are clear. The hospice people give me
credit for Dad’s new lease on life. “He would be gone, if you hadn’t come,”
they say. I know this is likely not true, but, just the same, I’m so glad to be
here.
June 19
is Father’s Day, and we plan a party. We ask Dad what he wants to eat, and he
says “Hot dogs!” Mom resists, saying he’s not supposed to have hot dogs. We
say, “Mom, he’s 95 and terminal. He wants hot dogs, he get hot dogs!” So we have
them along with all his favorites:
watermelon, and cantaloupe, and homemade ice cream! It is a lovely
Father’s Day! Dad’s Father’s Day gift to me.
And it
was the gift that kept on giving. He was to live six more months, most of that
time alert though very weak and failing. I returned twice more to reminisce a
little and to say good-by and I love you. When the end finally did come, I
wasn’t there, but I’m OK with that. I had the 6-month Father’s Day gift!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Self-consciousness
I got a haircut this morning. I could tell that the beautician seemed to think that my hair maybe was a little out of control. Now my hair has always tended to grow out rather than down, if you know what I mean. It wants to curl, and up until about two years ago, I was vigilant to make sure it either didn't curl much or at least it curled in the direction I wanted it to go.
Well, in the summer of 2011, I saw two of my cousins, Annette and Jan, both of whom have very curly hair. They had good haircuts, rather short, and their hair curled into tiny, soft ringlets. Ever since, I have been coaxing my own hair to look like that. Well, mine is not quite as curly, and so at least half the time, it just looks big and bushy. But you know what? I don't care. I really don't. I DON'T CARE! (I am saying this with a smile.) I believe I am past trying to make it do what it doesn't want to do. It's really quite a liberating feeling. I just want it to be clean and to feel soft. I don't want any shiners, or de-frizzers, or mousse, or wax, or any other leave-in product. It's just au natural for me.
You know, self-consciousness is a stifling trait. It makes us stiff and tentative. It hinders us from trying new things for fear of looking stupid or worse, failing entirely. It may tempt us to jealousy or petty squabbles in order to save face.Self-consciousness makes us agonize over past actions and words we have spoken. Oh, don't get me wrong, we need to confess our sins to God as well as to those we've offended. But once that is done, we must stop thinking about ourselves. What a thought!
Primping is not a fruit of the Spirit. Neither is fretting, regretting, nor resentment. And so if my day is under the Holy Spirit's control, I will focus on Christ, on His wonderful love for me, on His sacrifice on my behalf, on His Word. And what I experience as a result will be love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Well, in the summer of 2011, I saw two of my cousins, Annette and Jan, both of whom have very curly hair. They had good haircuts, rather short, and their hair curled into tiny, soft ringlets. Ever since, I have been coaxing my own hair to look like that. Well, mine is not quite as curly, and so at least half the time, it just looks big and bushy. But you know what? I don't care. I really don't. I DON'T CARE! (I am saying this with a smile.) I believe I am past trying to make it do what it doesn't want to do. It's really quite a liberating feeling. I just want it to be clean and to feel soft. I don't want any shiners, or de-frizzers, or mousse, or wax, or any other leave-in product. It's just au natural for me.
You know, self-consciousness is a stifling trait. It makes us stiff and tentative. It hinders us from trying new things for fear of looking stupid or worse, failing entirely. It may tempt us to jealousy or petty squabbles in order to save face.Self-consciousness makes us agonize over past actions and words we have spoken. Oh, don't get me wrong, we need to confess our sins to God as well as to those we've offended. But once that is done, we must stop thinking about ourselves. What a thought!
Primping is not a fruit of the Spirit. Neither is fretting, regretting, nor resentment. And so if my day is under the Holy Spirit's control, I will focus on Christ, on His wonderful love for me, on His sacrifice on my behalf, on His Word. And what I experience as a result will be love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
I Don't Have That Kind of Time
I recently read the book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. She relates an anecdote in which she is on a shopping trip with her friend Pammy who is dying of cancer. Anne tries on a dress which is unlike the big, baggy clothes she usually chooses. It fits perfectly, but Anne stood there "feeling very shy and self-conscious and pleased." Then I (Anne) said, 'Do you think it makes my hips look too big?' and she (Pammy) said to me slowly, 'Annie? I really don't think you have that kind of time.'" (p. 170)
And you know what? I don't have that kind of time either. I don't have time to procrastinate the things that I want to do. I don't have time to be ruled by the perfectionist tyrant. I don't have time for petty squabbles and idle arguments. I don't have time to try to pacify people who can't be pleased, who are negative and disapproving. I don't have time to nurse hurt feelings. I don't have time to regret past sins of which I have repented or poor decisions I have made or failures to act because of my own weakness. I don't even have time to regret the time I've wasted! I'll never get it back so I have to try to make the best use of the time I have left. And so what is the best use? I think it's easier to determine what it's not, than what it is. I know it's not to agonize over what people think of me or expect of me. Ms. Lamott goes on to say, "I don't think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won't be good enough at it,..." (p. 170)
James asks the question, "What is your life?" And he answers the question too. "It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." (James 4:14) Peter puts it this way, "For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; But the word of the Lord endureth for ever..." My problem is that I don't want my life to be a vapour that disappears in an instant and leaves no trace; I don't want to be grass that dies unnoticed and is forgotten.
Is it just me, or is there something in the human spirit that wants to leave something of ourselves behind? Some legacy?
And you know what? I don't have that kind of time either. I don't have time to procrastinate the things that I want to do. I don't have time to be ruled by the perfectionist tyrant. I don't have time for petty squabbles and idle arguments. I don't have time to try to pacify people who can't be pleased, who are negative and disapproving. I don't have time to nurse hurt feelings. I don't have time to regret past sins of which I have repented or poor decisions I have made or failures to act because of my own weakness. I don't even have time to regret the time I've wasted! I'll never get it back so I have to try to make the best use of the time I have left. And so what is the best use? I think it's easier to determine what it's not, than what it is. I know it's not to agonize over what people think of me or expect of me. Ms. Lamott goes on to say, "I don't think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won't be good enough at it,..." (p. 170)
James asks the question, "What is your life?" And he answers the question too. "It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." (James 4:14) Peter puts it this way, "For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; But the word of the Lord endureth for ever..." My problem is that I don't want my life to be a vapour that disappears in an instant and leaves no trace; I don't want to be grass that dies unnoticed and is forgotten.
Is it just me, or is there something in the human spirit that wants to leave something of ourselves behind? Some legacy?
Negative Command
This week I heard a sports announcer say, "You can't obey a negative command." He said it in the context of an athlete saying, "I can't miss this free throw," or "I can't fail," in some way. He said this a self-defeating practice. Have you ever tried the exercise in which someone says, "Don't think about a big plate of spaghetti," or "Don't think about a pink pig." Yes, we all know that when we entertain images, it's almost impossible NOT to think about them.
I know when I have negative thoughts, I don't like that irritable feeling. I'm uncomfortable, and tell myself, "Don't think about that." Well, I have found out first hand that I cannot obey a negative command.
And so, what is the solution? I must replace the unwanted thoughts with positive ones. Of course, God's Word is best thing to put into my head, or maybe Godly music. But you know, a distraction of any kind can help. Especially something that requires mental concentration.
I know when I have negative thoughts, I don't like that irritable feeling. I'm uncomfortable, and tell myself, "Don't think about that." Well, I have found out first hand that I cannot obey a negative command.
And so, what is the solution? I must replace the unwanted thoughts with positive ones. Of course, God's Word is best thing to put into my head, or maybe Godly music. But you know, a distraction of any kind can help. Especially something that requires mental concentration.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Clean Underwear
Novelist Robert Bausch said, "Saying you don’t
read poetry is like saying you don’t change your underwear; it says more about you than the underwear."
With this in mind, I will not SAY that I don't read poetry, but I will admit that even though I don't SAY it, I actually don't read poetry very much. And when I do, I'm afraid I lack the patience to really absorb it. Yesterday I listened to Richard Blanco read his poem "One Today" as part of President Obama's second inauguration festivities. I believe poetry is meant to be heard as well as read, and I immediately liked the poem. I shared it with a young friend who writes poetry, and she said she liked it too. But I wondered, "Why do we like it?" And so I found the text of the poem and read it through a couple of times.
The first characteristic I noticed was that Richard Blanco chose several interesting verbs--not verbs that I had to look up in the dictionary, mind you, but words I didn't expect to hear used as verbs or words that were in some way surprising but effective in communicating his thoughts and feelings.
I have reproduced the first two stanza's here and highlighted the verbs or verb forms I thought especially interesting.
One Today by Richard Blanco
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school
buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks
heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
Blanco also made good use of visual and auditory images. Listen to Stanza 6:
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
And then the figures of speech--similes, metaphors, personification...
"The sun...greeting the faces of the Great Lakes;...the apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise;...and always one moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop and every window..."
Thank you, Richard Blanco, for making us want to read poetry.
With this in mind, I will not SAY that I don't read poetry, but I will admit that even though I don't SAY it, I actually don't read poetry very much. And when I do, I'm afraid I lack the patience to really absorb it. Yesterday I listened to Richard Blanco read his poem "One Today" as part of President Obama's second inauguration festivities. I believe poetry is meant to be heard as well as read, and I immediately liked the poem. I shared it with a young friend who writes poetry, and she said she liked it too. But I wondered, "Why do we like it?" And so I found the text of the poem and read it through a couple of times.
The first characteristic I noticed was that Richard Blanco chose several interesting verbs--not verbs that I had to look up in the dictionary, mind you, but words I didn't expect to hear used as verbs or words that were in some way surprising but effective in communicating his thoughts and feelings.
I have reproduced the first two stanza's here and highlighted the verbs or verb forms I thought especially interesting.
One Today by Richard Blanco
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school
buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks
heavy with oil or paper—bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
Blanco also made good use of visual and auditory images. Listen to Stanza 6:
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
And then the figures of speech--similes, metaphors, personification...
"The sun...greeting the faces of the Great Lakes;...the apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise;...and always one moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop and every window..."
Thank you, Richard Blanco, for making us want to read poetry.
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