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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

Grandma Moses and Me

"I look back on my life like a good day's work; it was done and I am satisfied with it." 
Anna Mary Robertson Moses.

Grandma Moses was born in 1860; she began oil painting in the 1930s when arthritis in her hands made the hobby of embroidery difficult or maybe impossible. Notice I said "began"! If you will do the math, you will see that in 1930, she was 70 years old. What a time in life to begin a new career. And what a career it was!
She is remembered today as an important American folk artist. If you Google her name, I'm sure you will recognize her work.

Grandma Moses' story encourages me because it is easy for me to regret what I have failed to do up until now. But you know, the days, months, and years will pass whether I make use of them or not. Grandma Moses could have said, "I've always wanted to paint. Ho hum, I wish I had started years ago. My, my, now I'm too old." Somehow I doubt Grandma Moses ever really "got old," though she lived to the age of 101.

That's how I want to be. Obviously I didn't choose the year I was born, and I'm not ashamed of the number of birthdays I have had, but I don't want to be "old" in thinking and attitude! And so I am doing a few things to help ward off "oldness." I try to stay in shape physically by walking for exercise, but I need to add some resistance training to this. You know, the whole fragile bone thing... Also, I'm keeping my brain active with reading, teaching, and piano practice, and I have added lumosity.com games to my regular routine.

And then there are some things I need to do MUCH better in. One of them is my walk with the Lord. Bible reading and prayer are so important, but often they don't seem urgent to me and tend to get shuffled around. And so this needs to go to the top of the list.

Then there is that nagging wish to write. I'm not sure why or why I can't get away from it or why I feel such reluctance to just DO it. Anyway, in this area, my goal is to write 50 posts in 2013 whether anyone reads them or not. (I would have said 52 for 52 weeks but...you guessed it, I'm already 2 weeks behind!)

If I were to die today, I don't think I could say, "I look back on my life like a good day's work; it was done and I am satisfied with it." But I would like to.