A conversation is a monologue unless there’s back-and-forth-ness, and to play the conversational game there has to be a pitcher and a catcher. You say something, and I catch it. I return a comment, and you catch it.
I’ve noticed a distinct disposition in myself to shut down and pull away when I’m thrown something in the context of anger, and to overreact and try to step in and assume responsibility when thrown something in the context of anxiety. These predispositions probably were shaped in my childhood, but it annoys me that they’re still in place. And the ball doesn’t even have to be thrown at ME – it can be tossed to someone else – and I still respond internally in the old automatic ways.
On the other hand, I seem to open up and receive whatever is thrown with an honest intent to CONNECT, even if the content is very difficult. As long as the other player is interested in sharing the real deal and hearing my real deal, and both parties want to work toward mutual understanding (and hard work it is, sometimes), I’m good to go. But I need to work on figuring out a way to manage those inevitable curve balls that are thrown my way, as well as how to avoid sending them myself.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sue (Nah-Me!) News
As the saying goes, “When it rains, it pours.” And as we all know, sometimes the pouring becomes monsoon-ing…and then evolves into tsunami-ing.
Last night a tsunami wave slammed its way into the bathroom. Sue was about to Nah-Me anyway (i.e. my gasket was about to blow, get my cute personification?) as compounding irritants – like little straws that broke the camel’s back – turned gritty and sandpaper-y and threatened to make me just plain annoyed and grinchy. But on top of everything else, the water heater decided to go on strike right when I wanted to take a bath. Nice. Nothing like a relaxing, ice cold arctic shampoo at the end of the day. Very relaxing. You should try it sometime. Good for stimulating the nerve endings in the scalp. And nerves in general.
However, it turned out that the heater’s pilot light was just out, so this morning we had hot water again. Hopefully that’s the end of that particular bummer-outer. I also am reminding myself that I can choose to focus on all the other kinds of raining and pouring and monsoon-ing and tsunami-ing going on at the moment; great swells of love and gratitude and hope. Not to mention even larger tidal waves of God's mercy. It all depends on where I put my eyes.
Last night a tsunami wave slammed its way into the bathroom. Sue was about to Nah-Me anyway (i.e. my gasket was about to blow, get my cute personification?) as compounding irritants – like little straws that broke the camel’s back – turned gritty and sandpaper-y and threatened to make me just plain annoyed and grinchy. But on top of everything else, the water heater decided to go on strike right when I wanted to take a bath. Nice. Nothing like a relaxing, ice cold arctic shampoo at the end of the day. Very relaxing. You should try it sometime. Good for stimulating the nerve endings in the scalp. And nerves in general.
However, it turned out that the heater’s pilot light was just out, so this morning we had hot water again. Hopefully that’s the end of that particular bummer-outer. I also am reminding myself that I can choose to focus on all the other kinds of raining and pouring and monsoon-ing and tsunami-ing going on at the moment; great swells of love and gratitude and hope. Not to mention even larger tidal waves of God's mercy. It all depends on where I put my eyes.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Picture Frames
Picture Frames
My picture frame (meaning my personal perspective or viewpoint of life) has been fairly small recently, since most discussion and decision-making, and almost all plans and actions, have been pointing toward a destination: SELLING THE HOUSE.
Today I was reminded that God’s perspective of this project is actually much larger, and I only limit myself by choosing to obsess about, and focus on, what I see through “my” picture frame. In the midst of the remodel, He’s actually shaping and refining skills, relationships, and attitudes…and ultimately, character. It’s a time for embracing appreciation, creativity, discovery and growth; a time to pull apart the pieces of that old frame (mind-set) and see how His wide-angle lens can broaden the view and bring things together that might not have overlapped otherwise.
This is true all the time, but perhaps especially right now as I turn this corner in my life. I actually would like for Him to blow apart all my frames (I think I have one for just about everything and everyone) and immerse me in His panoramic vistas instead.
My picture frame (meaning my personal perspective or viewpoint of life) has been fairly small recently, since most discussion and decision-making, and almost all plans and actions, have been pointing toward a destination: SELLING THE HOUSE.
Today I was reminded that God’s perspective of this project is actually much larger, and I only limit myself by choosing to obsess about, and focus on, what I see through “my” picture frame. In the midst of the remodel, He’s actually shaping and refining skills, relationships, and attitudes…and ultimately, character. It’s a time for embracing appreciation, creativity, discovery and growth; a time to pull apart the pieces of that old frame (mind-set) and see how His wide-angle lens can broaden the view and bring things together that might not have overlapped otherwise.
This is true all the time, but perhaps especially right now as I turn this corner in my life. I actually would like for Him to blow apart all my frames (I think I have one for just about everything and everyone) and immerse me in His panoramic vistas instead.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Muffle-Men
I woke up this morning with that familiar numb, muffle-y feeling down deep in my ears: a sign that I’ve stressed my hearing to the max. I probably should explain, in case you’re unfamiliar with this phenomenon.
Little muffle-men are my accountability partners when I’ve strained to hear for long periods of time in the midst of ongoing noise. Not unlike the Bashful-Doc-Grumpy-Sneezy-Dopey-Happy-Sleepy dwarfs in the story of Snow White, they’re more than a little eccentric…they’re just plain nerdy.
But by working together, they’re able to control my auditory breaker switches, which is an important job. When things get really noisy, and I’m straining like crazy to hear over my tinnitus noises, it’s not unusual for them to start grumbling: “Alright already, we’re doing all we can to regulate all this…what’s her deal, anyway…you can’t get blood out of a turnip.”
Of course they’re not REALLY talking about blood OR turnips, let alone both (ewww…gross combination). They’re REALLY referring to their impatience with my attitude, and the fact that I magnify external sounds with hearing aids and then can be bummed that the resulting cacophony of tinnitus-plus-magnified-everything-else seems unreasonable. Well, here’s the truth. It isn’t reasonable. Especially when there’s lots of sounds/noises going on all the time.
“Hey muffle-guys, you know I have only so much tolerance in a given day. So if you need to muffle me as a reminder to find some quiet, then get on the stick.” This is in reference to our mutually agreed upon point system. In a given hour, the lawnmower might use up about 20 points. Spoken conversation might use up 30. Crying babies claim special pointage (I know, I know – pointage isn’t a word, but I like it): 50.
If the maximum allowed by my brain before the muffle-guys kick into gear is set at 100, then any other additional noise pushes them into work mode. So the workers banging on the roof (for example) or the dog barking (for another example) or little kids’ chirpy-bleep-bleep voices (the supreme example) will sound the alarm and rustle them out of bed. They reluctantly throw on their overalls and grab their earmuffs and get to work.
Right now they’re complaining because of long workdays. “What’s with this? Why do we have to work so much recently, without any extra pay?” Our agreement is contractual, but evidently they’d prefer an hourly wage.
“Back off and just do your job,” I say. “Life isn’t fair. Get over it.” They’re grumblers by nature, but in reality they get plenty of vacation time in any given year. It’s just that today, and probably for the rest of the summer, they’re going to see a lot of overtime.
Little muffle-men are my accountability partners when I’ve strained to hear for long periods of time in the midst of ongoing noise. Not unlike the Bashful-Doc-Grumpy-Sneezy-Dopey-Happy-Sleepy dwarfs in the story of Snow White, they’re more than a little eccentric…they’re just plain nerdy.
But by working together, they’re able to control my auditory breaker switches, which is an important job. When things get really noisy, and I’m straining like crazy to hear over my tinnitus noises, it’s not unusual for them to start grumbling: “Alright already, we’re doing all we can to regulate all this…what’s her deal, anyway…you can’t get blood out of a turnip.”
Of course they’re not REALLY talking about blood OR turnips, let alone both (ewww…gross combination). They’re REALLY referring to their impatience with my attitude, and the fact that I magnify external sounds with hearing aids and then can be bummed that the resulting cacophony of tinnitus-plus-magnified-everything-else seems unreasonable. Well, here’s the truth. It isn’t reasonable. Especially when there’s lots of sounds/noises going on all the time.
“Hey muffle-guys, you know I have only so much tolerance in a given day. So if you need to muffle me as a reminder to find some quiet, then get on the stick.” This is in reference to our mutually agreed upon point system. In a given hour, the lawnmower might use up about 20 points. Spoken conversation might use up 30. Crying babies claim special pointage (I know, I know – pointage isn’t a word, but I like it): 50.
If the maximum allowed by my brain before the muffle-guys kick into gear is set at 100, then any other additional noise pushes them into work mode. So the workers banging on the roof (for example) or the dog barking (for another example) or little kids’ chirpy-bleep-bleep voices (the supreme example) will sound the alarm and rustle them out of bed. They reluctantly throw on their overalls and grab their earmuffs and get to work.
Right now they’re complaining because of long workdays. “What’s with this? Why do we have to work so much recently, without any extra pay?” Our agreement is contractual, but evidently they’d prefer an hourly wage.
“Back off and just do your job,” I say. “Life isn’t fair. Get over it.” They’re grumblers by nature, but in reality they get plenty of vacation time in any given year. It’s just that today, and probably for the rest of the summer, they’re going to see a lot of overtime.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monkey Bars
"Life is like a set of monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward." – C.S. Lewis
The big issue, it seems, is choosing to move forward at all, and seeing life as an opportunity to progress toward an emerging identity. In reality, we often protect (or manipulate) our days in order to resist change as if it were the plague, or at least a very bad case of poison ivy. In that case, we end up focused on preserving what we already have and know rather than opening ourselves to change and becoming new creatures in Christ.
I’ve been thinking about my own experience and how easy it is to progress through a revolving cycle. As little children we depend on others for just about everything, and yet very much want to grow up. Then we believe we know it all; feel entitled; scramble to build a life and settle in, realizing time is fleeting, health is precious, and relationships are paramount. Eventually we look back and realize Growing Up is really a matter of Letting Go and Reaching Out for the Father’s hand…like a child.
I see how everything flip-flops – sort of like when you read a book cover-to-cover, and then find yourself on page one again looking back over the whole thing. When you flip through the pages a second time, your underlinings and scribbles in the margins make more sense – and the Author is easier to trust – and you’re more willing to spend the majority of your time in that first chapter just zeroing in on what Jesus meant when He used little kids as examples of greatness.
These days the monkey bars keep calling me to lessen my grip, to flex and/or release, and to keep moving…always moving toward childlike expectancy.
The big issue, it seems, is choosing to move forward at all, and seeing life as an opportunity to progress toward an emerging identity. In reality, we often protect (or manipulate) our days in order to resist change as if it were the plague, or at least a very bad case of poison ivy. In that case, we end up focused on preserving what we already have and know rather than opening ourselves to change and becoming new creatures in Christ.
I’ve been thinking about my own experience and how easy it is to progress through a revolving cycle. As little children we depend on others for just about everything, and yet very much want to grow up. Then we believe we know it all; feel entitled; scramble to build a life and settle in, realizing time is fleeting, health is precious, and relationships are paramount. Eventually we look back and realize Growing Up is really a matter of Letting Go and Reaching Out for the Father’s hand…like a child.
I see how everything flip-flops – sort of like when you read a book cover-to-cover, and then find yourself on page one again looking back over the whole thing. When you flip through the pages a second time, your underlinings and scribbles in the margins make more sense – and the Author is easier to trust – and you’re more willing to spend the majority of your time in that first chapter just zeroing in on what Jesus meant when He used little kids as examples of greatness.
These days the monkey bars keep calling me to lessen my grip, to flex and/or release, and to keep moving…always moving toward childlike expectancy.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Cherry Pickin' Time
Streaks of evening sun lay across the yard as we set up the family of ladders under our cherry tree yesterday: a very steep old theater ladder with rusty hinges, an extension ladder, and the baby - a stepladder.
The tree, with its dark green foliage, proudly wore round, red fruit as if sprinkled with decorations for a celebration of Christmas-in-June. We started picking and didn’t stop until four overstuffed bowls were full to the brim.
While adults perched among the branches with their silver bowls in hand, blue-eyed, one-year-old baby Josie replayed scenes from Little House on the Prairie below them. Her bare feet trotted here and there in the grass while she wore a slightly-dirty-around-the-edges, old-fashioned-loosely-cut summer outfit. Eager to explore mounds of loose dirt deposited by moles or crawdads, she dug in her toes and instinctively wiggled them until the dirt fell away. She climbed through the bottom rungs of the ladders as if they were part of her everyday terrain, and confidently pointed to her parents roosting in the tree as if it was perfectly normal for parents to pretend they were birds. The prickly weeds in our less-than-manicured lawn – those ones with the little stickers - didn’t seem to hinder her in the least. And cherries, well, according to Josie they must have been created as novelties to be squished by her little fists until their juice dripped down her arms. She was in her element.
When we came inside, she bawled like a prisoner who’d been locked behind bars. She pointed toward the door, clearly not willing to give up her Eden. And yet it was her bedtime, and we had a lot of pitting to do.
I will long remember Josie’s honest enjoyment of the most simple and richly rewarding entertainment possible: family members happily engaged with each other in nature, working and playing together, belonging right there in the dirt and the grass and evening sunshine.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Remodel Update
Yesterday I watched from the sidelines as our two young and capable macho-guys started clicking things off the to-do list, including the following:
1.) Assessed roofing needs by defying gravity on our Mount Everest-type-roof with death-daring, cat-like agility that made my head swim.
2.) Tore out their first two old windows upstairs and switched them out with new ones as part of the window-replacement-learning-curve.
3.) Talked about expanding the existing (rather exhaustive) to-do list to include brand new wood floors – eureka! – and maybe tile floors, walls, and countertops in the bathroom – eureka again!
4.) Shopped for various materials and made plans to borrow ladders and harnesses and staple guns and whatever else from friends, a lovely perk that will also save some money in the long haul.
I nodded affirmatively and appreciatively like one of those clueless-squat-round-eyed-frizz-haired-bobble-headed dolls (gotta love ‘em), kept the crew's energy levels revved with plenty of FOOD, intermittently watched Josie, and was at least willing to pitch in on any super-menial old-lady jobs. Here’s one-and-only example of my limited level of actual remodel-related work.
“Hey Ma, if you’d count how many plastic switch and outlet plates we need, I could stop and get new ones in the morning before I come out.” I felt so important. Yup, I could do THAT, right after feeding y’all a big meatloaf and some organic mashed potatoes, and cleaning up the dirty floor AGAIN.
On a personal level, I need to get a grip before we get too far into this remodel process since I’m exhausted already. In recent months (maybe the last year or so) I’ve noticed when I’m dealing with excessive and ongoing hubbub and noise, I unconsciously tense up and hold my breath – almost like a protection mechanism from the compounded/compressing outside-plus-inside racket. Then later, I’m exhausted and my heart races for an extended period of time (sometimes hours), presumably to catch up from the oxygen depletion. Seems stupid, I know, but tinnitus stress + additional noise = tension. It’s hard for me to control these reactions when they operate reflexively. I had some serious fall-out yesterday afternoon and even had to lie down for a while and do the intentional relaxation and deep breathing routine. Gotta get over that since we have a LONG way to go with this project.
In the meantime, Josie is adorable, through-and-through, a mentally sharp, emotionally tolerant, and physically capable one-year-old. Of course I happen to be the Gramma, so consider the source when you hear that report.
1.) Assessed roofing needs by defying gravity on our Mount Everest-type-roof with death-daring, cat-like agility that made my head swim.
2.) Tore out their first two old windows upstairs and switched them out with new ones as part of the window-replacement-learning-curve.
3.) Talked about expanding the existing (rather exhaustive) to-do list to include brand new wood floors – eureka! – and maybe tile floors, walls, and countertops in the bathroom – eureka again!
4.) Shopped for various materials and made plans to borrow ladders and harnesses and staple guns and whatever else from friends, a lovely perk that will also save some money in the long haul.
I nodded affirmatively and appreciatively like one of those clueless-squat-round-eyed-frizz-haired-bobble-headed dolls (gotta love ‘em), kept the crew's energy levels revved with plenty of FOOD, intermittently watched Josie, and was at least willing to pitch in on any super-menial old-lady jobs. Here’s one-and-only example of my limited level of actual remodel-related work.
“Hey Ma, if you’d count how many plastic switch and outlet plates we need, I could stop and get new ones in the morning before I come out.” I felt so important. Yup, I could do THAT, right after feeding y’all a big meatloaf and some organic mashed potatoes, and cleaning up the dirty floor AGAIN.
On a personal level, I need to get a grip before we get too far into this remodel process since I’m exhausted already. In recent months (maybe the last year or so) I’ve noticed when I’m dealing with excessive and ongoing hubbub and noise, I unconsciously tense up and hold my breath – almost like a protection mechanism from the compounded/compressing outside-plus-inside racket. Then later, I’m exhausted and my heart races for an extended period of time (sometimes hours), presumably to catch up from the oxygen depletion. Seems stupid, I know, but tinnitus stress + additional noise = tension. It’s hard for me to control these reactions when they operate reflexively. I had some serious fall-out yesterday afternoon and even had to lie down for a while and do the intentional relaxation and deep breathing routine. Gotta get over that since we have a LONG way to go with this project.
In the meantime, Josie is adorable, through-and-through, a mentally sharp, emotionally tolerant, and physically capable one-year-old. Of course I happen to be the Gramma, so consider the source when you hear that report.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Down the Rabbit Hole
It’s GREAT to have the kids piling in to help on the house and offer a shot in the arm (a few cc’s of encouragement). And yet part of me also feels like flying the coop – escaping, going off on a lark while the work gets done, and returning to the voila-newness without being part of the process.
Hmmmm. I could pack the quart-sized thermos with freshly made Green Lemonade, grab a big bunch of the crunchiest and coldest black grapes (and maybe a snack-sized Ziploc bag of almonds) and head out on a real-for-sure field trip! I mean why is it that youngsters always get to take field trips to cool places while senior adults just seem to fossilize?
Oh. And just so you know, it’s okay that you’re making that disgusted-looking face. You don’t have to drink Green Lemonade. In fact, you don’t have to come at all.
BECAUSE, you see, like Alice in Wonderland, the rabbit hole could (just maybe) swallow me whole, lead me beyond this dimension, show me something I’ve missed up until now. It could take me to some deeply interior spot…oh my goodness…and you probably wouldn’t want to end up THERE.
But think about it: The Perfect Field Trip. Surrounded by unlimited possibility as a dependent of El Shaddai, I might discover a clearer view of life-lived-to-the-fullest, or a sharper perception of dying-and-death, or an inspired glimpse of rebirth-to-newness…or all three…and all in kaleidoscopic color. Whoa.
I’m especially in the mood to whittle long-standing-but-still-emerging attitudes to a fine tip – those about the impossible becoming possible, which is, of course, one of the core messages of Christianity.
However, reality is calling my name via ye old clanging wrought-iron dinner bell. It’s time to cook (again), and then it will be time to wash the dishes (again), straighten up messiness (again), and fold the laundry (again) – and in the midst of all that, there are plenty of interactive opportunities with the house full of people, just like old times. The rabbit hole - that personalized one waiting just for me - will have to wait just a little bit longer.
And yet just a second ago, I stuck my nose in Lewis Carroll’s book, and vicariously joined Alice on her wild-ride-of-a-field-trip into another world for just a minute. Once again I ended up believing and knowing (like Alice, who observes “so many out-of-the-way things happening recently”) that impossibility is a state of mind; that hope is the greater truth, and impossible things truly ARE possible, if only by redefinition of my expectation and faith in El Shaddai.
________________
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well…
Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth…
Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. `Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time…
She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah…when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over…
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head though the doorway; `and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, `it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible…
___________________
Hmmmm. I could pack the quart-sized thermos with freshly made Green Lemonade, grab a big bunch of the crunchiest and coldest black grapes (and maybe a snack-sized Ziploc bag of almonds) and head out on a real-for-sure field trip! I mean why is it that youngsters always get to take field trips to cool places while senior adults just seem to fossilize?
Oh. And just so you know, it’s okay that you’re making that disgusted-looking face. You don’t have to drink Green Lemonade. In fact, you don’t have to come at all.
BECAUSE, you see, like Alice in Wonderland, the rabbit hole could (just maybe) swallow me whole, lead me beyond this dimension, show me something I’ve missed up until now. It could take me to some deeply interior spot…oh my goodness…and you probably wouldn’t want to end up THERE.
But think about it: The Perfect Field Trip. Surrounded by unlimited possibility as a dependent of El Shaddai, I might discover a clearer view of life-lived-to-the-fullest, or a sharper perception of dying-and-death, or an inspired glimpse of rebirth-to-newness…or all three…and all in kaleidoscopic color. Whoa.
I’m especially in the mood to whittle long-standing-but-still-emerging attitudes to a fine tip – those about the impossible becoming possible, which is, of course, one of the core messages of Christianity.
However, reality is calling my name via ye old clanging wrought-iron dinner bell. It’s time to cook (again), and then it will be time to wash the dishes (again), straighten up messiness (again), and fold the laundry (again) – and in the midst of all that, there are plenty of interactive opportunities with the house full of people, just like old times. The rabbit hole - that personalized one waiting just for me - will have to wait just a little bit longer.
And yet just a second ago, I stuck my nose in Lewis Carroll’s book, and vicariously joined Alice on her wild-ride-of-a-field-trip into another world for just a minute. Once again I ended up believing and knowing (like Alice, who observes “so many out-of-the-way things happening recently”) that impossibility is a state of mind; that hope is the greater truth, and impossible things truly ARE possible, if only by redefinition of my expectation and faith in El Shaddai.
________________
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well…
Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth…
Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. `Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time…
She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah…when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over…
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head though the doorway; `and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, `it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible…
___________________
Monday, June 22, 2009
Emptiness
About a month ago, I ran across a quote from Mother Theresa (I may have mentioned it already in this blog, I’m not sure). She said something about how the down-in-the-mouth twins, namely Discouragement and Disappointment, are primarily an issue of pride. We wouldn’t become discouraged or disappointed IF we had rock-solid faith our Lord Jesus is in charge of our lives, and IF we were accordingly (and humbly) submitted to Him. Conversely, when plowing ahead under our own steam (essentially when pridefully assuming we can control things better than the Lord of Life) and our hopes/plans go awry, we feel like throwing in the towel.
That’s a biggie. And yet it rings true with me simply because I know from personal experience that peace – the real gutsy kind, when I melt inside and truly REST – comes in the midst of relinquishment to Him.
At the risk of making excuses, it seems increasing age is a huge factor in upping the potential for another “dis” work - dis-enchantment - if only because we become comparatively weaker, more vulnerable, emotionally volatile, and just plain weary. However, when seen through Mother Theresa’s eyes, this also means seniors are actually enabled because of their lack of stamina to revert to attributes of childlikeness (Jesus’ goal for the disciples that I keep coming back to in Matthew 18:1-5), and thus depend on God’s strength and guidance.
So right now I have opportunity to put my faith to the test. If I were compared to a big industrial-sized coffee pot, it feels as if my coffee (motivation, energy, optimism, strength) has been all poured out, down to the last drop. (By the way, the old Maxwell House commercials used to talk about “good to the last drop” which I suppose could also apply, since events in my past – even the hard sacrifices and sufferings - have ended up being good in the sense of teaching me to live by, and in, God’s grace). Not only that, but the empty pot is sitting on the burner, scalded and stinky and very HOT.
Not that the whole mess can’t be scrubbed out and cleaned up, and new coffee dripped, so the pouring-out can continue. It can, and will, because I bear witness to past supernatural recoveries and re-fillings. My hurdle seems to be a matter of expecting God to handle the maintenance chores, and LETTING HIM be a sovereign God instead of trying to make the coffee myself when I’m out of beans.
Also, I hit the skids and struggle to cope with my tinnitus when the pot empties out like this. Then the panic descends, and I feel filled up with rocks, and the everyday investment of myself (the pouring-out) turns into abrasive grating and grinding.
Katie and Nathan (and Josie) will arrive later today, and yesterday Emily loaned us her extra queen-sized bed for them – all blessings. Freddy contacted the AC guy to see about repairing the recent installation mistake, and trouble-shooting any additional damages to the furnace, and he’s already out here with a crew – another blessing. John called his dad on the phone last night for Father’s Day, and Fritz was cheered-up and encouraged afterwards (a blessing since he, too, is feeling relatively empty). Compared to much of the world, we are safe, well fed, showered with abundance, and well-loved in tangible ways.
So here’s my self-accountability challenge. I want to focus on God, what God is doing, and my response to Him in these rather exhausting circumstances - rather than submitting myself to my own rocky mistrust, and the inner grinding that only serves to wear me down into deadened particles of sand.
That’s a biggie. And yet it rings true with me simply because I know from personal experience that peace – the real gutsy kind, when I melt inside and truly REST – comes in the midst of relinquishment to Him.
At the risk of making excuses, it seems increasing age is a huge factor in upping the potential for another “dis” work - dis-enchantment - if only because we become comparatively weaker, more vulnerable, emotionally volatile, and just plain weary. However, when seen through Mother Theresa’s eyes, this also means seniors are actually enabled because of their lack of stamina to revert to attributes of childlikeness (Jesus’ goal for the disciples that I keep coming back to in Matthew 18:1-5), and thus depend on God’s strength and guidance.
So right now I have opportunity to put my faith to the test. If I were compared to a big industrial-sized coffee pot, it feels as if my coffee (motivation, energy, optimism, strength) has been all poured out, down to the last drop. (By the way, the old Maxwell House commercials used to talk about “good to the last drop” which I suppose could also apply, since events in my past – even the hard sacrifices and sufferings - have ended up being good in the sense of teaching me to live by, and in, God’s grace). Not only that, but the empty pot is sitting on the burner, scalded and stinky and very HOT.
Not that the whole mess can’t be scrubbed out and cleaned up, and new coffee dripped, so the pouring-out can continue. It can, and will, because I bear witness to past supernatural recoveries and re-fillings. My hurdle seems to be a matter of expecting God to handle the maintenance chores, and LETTING HIM be a sovereign God instead of trying to make the coffee myself when I’m out of beans.
Also, I hit the skids and struggle to cope with my tinnitus when the pot empties out like this. Then the panic descends, and I feel filled up with rocks, and the everyday investment of myself (the pouring-out) turns into abrasive grating and grinding.
Katie and Nathan (and Josie) will arrive later today, and yesterday Emily loaned us her extra queen-sized bed for them – all blessings. Freddy contacted the AC guy to see about repairing the recent installation mistake, and trouble-shooting any additional damages to the furnace, and he’s already out here with a crew – another blessing. John called his dad on the phone last night for Father’s Day, and Fritz was cheered-up and encouraged afterwards (a blessing since he, too, is feeling relatively empty). Compared to much of the world, we are safe, well fed, showered with abundance, and well-loved in tangible ways.
So here’s my self-accountability challenge. I want to focus on God, what God is doing, and my response to Him in these rather exhausting circumstances - rather than submitting myself to my own rocky mistrust, and the inner grinding that only serves to wear me down into deadened particles of sand.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
A Weeping Husky
Our furnace goes by the brand name of “Yukon Husky,” and is a big, rough-and-tough creature willing to eat his winter calories in either wood or gas. He enables a forced air system (even when eating wood) and yet it still thermostatically controlled, which is way cool.
The Husky had a bit of a surprise last week when the new air conditioner was installed…and yesterday evening I found him weeping uncontrollably. Huge crocodile tears ran down the face of the unit as if they could somehow wash away some horrible anguish. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead (ductwork). His lip (the ledge under the wood-burning chamber) drooled until his chin (the ash drawer) was soaking wet. “Awwww, man…do you need a Kleenex? How about a bib, buddy?” I asked this with just a hint of sarcastic compassion, if there is such a thing. He stood there resolutely in his pool of water (enough accumulation to allow for nice rust-inducing wading), a giant gray Husky-of-a-furnace, and kept crying.
We shut down the AC to give Husky a little breathing room and a chance to dry up. After a phone call and a little trouble-shooting, it seems perhaps there’s a drain that’s plugged, or never got set up correctly in the first place, or otherwise isn’t working properly. I dried Husky’s square-jawed face with an old towel and promised him we’d get help soon. “I hate to see you cry, big fella. It really chokes me up.” He probably thought I was just being politically correct, but I meant it since I know, from personal experience, what it’s like for the proverbial straw to break the camel’s (Husky’s) back.
The Husky had a bit of a surprise last week when the new air conditioner was installed…and yesterday evening I found him weeping uncontrollably. Huge crocodile tears ran down the face of the unit as if they could somehow wash away some horrible anguish. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead (ductwork). His lip (the ledge under the wood-burning chamber) drooled until his chin (the ash drawer) was soaking wet. “Awwww, man…do you need a Kleenex? How about a bib, buddy?” I asked this with just a hint of sarcastic compassion, if there is such a thing. He stood there resolutely in his pool of water (enough accumulation to allow for nice rust-inducing wading), a giant gray Husky-of-a-furnace, and kept crying.
We shut down the AC to give Husky a little breathing room and a chance to dry up. After a phone call and a little trouble-shooting, it seems perhaps there’s a drain that’s plugged, or never got set up correctly in the first place, or otherwise isn’t working properly. I dried Husky’s square-jawed face with an old towel and promised him we’d get help soon. “I hate to see you cry, big fella. It really chokes me up.” He probably thought I was just being politically correct, but I meant it since I know, from personal experience, what it’s like for the proverbial straw to break the camel’s (Husky’s) back.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
This is Paul Harvey...
Good morning Americans, this is Paul Harvey. Stand by for the news!
The Muehlhausens arrived back in Buck Creek last evening to face the evidence of suspicious happenings while they’d been gone.
It’s always a bit of a concern when they’re in one place or the other…(pause)…since they end up wondering what’s REALLY going on at the other house. This time they were greeted by tell-tale signs of activity as well as totally unexplainable phenomena.
Fritz donned his Max-the-detective outfit complete with the stiff vertical collar and black coat, and started snooping around (all hunched-shouldered, like Max) with a magnifying glass held to his protuberant nose.
As an editorial comment, I want to say to you that if you believe the preceding description of Fritz, who is actually the straightforward get-what-you-see-type guy, you’re just plain gullible and perhaps in need of professional counsel – or maybe a masseuse. I suggest you take your pick and get some help.
Page 2: And now for more of the story.
Clues continued to pile up.
Clue #1: A big empty box sat on the back porch. Clue #2: The house seemed cooler than usual for a summer evening. Clue #3: There was water in the basement, enough to soak a throw rug quite thoroughly, something that never-ever happens. Clue #4: The humidifier in the basement was not running. Clue #5: An upstairs window was wide-wide open – like Jaws personified.
In true fashion, Max made quick work of his investigation. It seems that after living for thirty years in this brick-oven-of-a-house, the Muehlhausens HAD CENTRAL AIR CONDITIONING INSTALLED THIS PAST WEEK!
Yes, that’s right. Central air. Otherwise known as….(pause)….AC.
Page 3: And now for the rest of the story.
As for the water in the basement, its cause is still a mystery. It must have come in if and when the technicians (their son and one other professional) left the basement hatch door open before a rainstorm. That’s their best guess. The humidifier probably got unplugged during installation. And who knows about the upstairs window! Gremlins, perhaps? Ask your counselor or masseuse if you’d like another opinion.
And that, my friends, is the end of the story. This is Paul Harvey. Good day!
The Muehlhausens arrived back in Buck Creek last evening to face the evidence of suspicious happenings while they’d been gone.
It’s always a bit of a concern when they’re in one place or the other…(pause)…since they end up wondering what’s REALLY going on at the other house. This time they were greeted by tell-tale signs of activity as well as totally unexplainable phenomena.
Fritz donned his Max-the-detective outfit complete with the stiff vertical collar and black coat, and started snooping around (all hunched-shouldered, like Max) with a magnifying glass held to his protuberant nose.
As an editorial comment, I want to say to you that if you believe the preceding description of Fritz, who is actually the straightforward get-what-you-see-type guy, you’re just plain gullible and perhaps in need of professional counsel – or maybe a masseuse. I suggest you take your pick and get some help.
Page 2: And now for more of the story.
Clues continued to pile up.
Clue #1: A big empty box sat on the back porch. Clue #2: The house seemed cooler than usual for a summer evening. Clue #3: There was water in the basement, enough to soak a throw rug quite thoroughly, something that never-ever happens. Clue #4: The humidifier in the basement was not running. Clue #5: An upstairs window was wide-wide open – like Jaws personified.
In true fashion, Max made quick work of his investigation. It seems that after living for thirty years in this brick-oven-of-a-house, the Muehlhausens HAD CENTRAL AIR CONDITIONING INSTALLED THIS PAST WEEK!
Yes, that’s right. Central air. Otherwise known as….(pause)….AC.
Page 3: And now for the rest of the story.
As for the water in the basement, its cause is still a mystery. It must have come in if and when the technicians (their son and one other professional) left the basement hatch door open before a rainstorm. That’s their best guess. The humidifier probably got unplugged during installation. And who knows about the upstairs window! Gremlins, perhaps? Ask your counselor or masseuse if you’d like another opinion.
And that, my friends, is the end of the story. This is Paul Harvey. Good day!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Trudy...and the Robin Egg
Sometimes while tromping along my usual two-mile walk beside the lake, I slip into another mode internally. I know something I haven’t known before, or recognize a nugget of inspiration that has been previously hidden, or am encouraged by new direction or insight or confidence. I’m not suggesting hocus-pocus, but rather am talking about a quiet murmur of a thought that shows up as if I’ve suddenly peeked through a crack in a picket fence to discover another world. And yet it feels so right and familiar over there, sort of like deja vu: “Ah, would you look at THAT! And yet...maybe it was there all along.”
This happened to me yesterday, unbidden as usual, in regard to writing. I’ve never intentionally thought, “Ok, it’s time for me to write a fiction novel.” And yet the thought slipped in like a ghost to grab me with both hands and shake me a little, as if I needed waking up.
It all started when I saw a robin egg on the road, or rather half of a shell, and I stooped to pick it up - a very light blue egg, more pale in color than usual, and maybe slightly larger than the typical robin egg. A fictional story simultaneously began unraveling in my mind, one about this egg and the discarded bird nests that had been collected by the main character whose name was Trudy (although I’ve never known anyone by that name, ever).
It seems Trudy’s mother was in the process of dying (slow, very slow labor pangs) from an invasion of cancer, and lay in her bedroom all propped up with white feather pillows; the edges of the pillowcases were embroidered with Victorian ladies wearing lavender hoop skirts. There, through small-paned, second-story French windows, the old woman overlooked her garden of intentionally tangled grasses punctuated here and there with poppies and lilies and Shasta daisies – the flowers that, years before, had graced her own mother’s table. (This would be Trudy’s grandmother’s table, the one pocked and scarred by generations of use. Flowers were often displayed slightly off-center, right on top of the burn spot where, as family legend had it, a cast-iron pot of very hot venison stew left its mark.)
The story would walk with Trudy for a summer when she watched a childlike spirit take over her mother’s heart in those last days. It would tell about how the old woman’s autonomous self-sufficiency crumbled, bit by bit - how one day she asked for a ham sandwich on white bread and a cup of very strong coffee, and Trudy brought them to her and helped her drink the lukewarm coffee slowly, with these little slurpy sips from the scalloped edge of the hand-painted British teacup.
One day Trudy would show her the eggshell, and they would talk about life and birthing and living and dying, and birthing again into eternity. Trudy would be there, in the middle of the night, when her mother coiled up in a fetal position like a baby re-entering life, one who cried her last birthing pangs and died with revolutionary hope and confidence in God.
After the funeral Trudy would see her bird nest collection differently. She would cry over them, these little masterpieces of art, and know the Father in a different way, perhaps an intuitively overwhelming way - almost like the unmistakable instinctive way that must have inspired all those birds when it was time for nest-building. And she would see that her life was like that, a time to build a nest that would become an eternal nest. She would know that life was not about just about biding time and waiting to die, but rather a time to prepare for the life she would live in the forever-ness of another garden even more beautiful than her mother’s wildly enchanting one strewn with slate paths…one more like Eden.
The whole story would emerge from that one little icon of an egg shell on a patch of torn-up asphalt, behind the big pine trees where the sunlight streamed through little peep holes to spotlight it: a little unassuming icon of hope.
I have no idea where this all came from, but it swept over me as if on a cinema screen in 3 dimensions with true-life color and script. I could see the old woman’s long hair, flattened to the back of her head from so much bed rest, and Trudy’s wide eyes full of wonder and love and newly gained confidence in her own identity as a child of God.
Maybe it had been brewing on some back burner somewhere, or was hiding down in the cellar where the story gremlins live, those little dwarf-like fellas who wring their hands and walk the damp floors while conjuring up new material. I don’t know if the story will ever be written, but in any case, the essence/moral has been captured here: life is fleeting but also permanent.
This happened to me yesterday, unbidden as usual, in regard to writing. I’ve never intentionally thought, “Ok, it’s time for me to write a fiction novel.” And yet the thought slipped in like a ghost to grab me with both hands and shake me a little, as if I needed waking up.
It all started when I saw a robin egg on the road, or rather half of a shell, and I stooped to pick it up - a very light blue egg, more pale in color than usual, and maybe slightly larger than the typical robin egg. A fictional story simultaneously began unraveling in my mind, one about this egg and the discarded bird nests that had been collected by the main character whose name was Trudy (although I’ve never known anyone by that name, ever).
It seems Trudy’s mother was in the process of dying (slow, very slow labor pangs) from an invasion of cancer, and lay in her bedroom all propped up with white feather pillows; the edges of the pillowcases were embroidered with Victorian ladies wearing lavender hoop skirts. There, through small-paned, second-story French windows, the old woman overlooked her garden of intentionally tangled grasses punctuated here and there with poppies and lilies and Shasta daisies – the flowers that, years before, had graced her own mother’s table. (This would be Trudy’s grandmother’s table, the one pocked and scarred by generations of use. Flowers were often displayed slightly off-center, right on top of the burn spot where, as family legend had it, a cast-iron pot of very hot venison stew left its mark.)
The story would walk with Trudy for a summer when she watched a childlike spirit take over her mother’s heart in those last days. It would tell about how the old woman’s autonomous self-sufficiency crumbled, bit by bit - how one day she asked for a ham sandwich on white bread and a cup of very strong coffee, and Trudy brought them to her and helped her drink the lukewarm coffee slowly, with these little slurpy sips from the scalloped edge of the hand-painted British teacup.
One day Trudy would show her the eggshell, and they would talk about life and birthing and living and dying, and birthing again into eternity. Trudy would be there, in the middle of the night, when her mother coiled up in a fetal position like a baby re-entering life, one who cried her last birthing pangs and died with revolutionary hope and confidence in God.
After the funeral Trudy would see her bird nest collection differently. She would cry over them, these little masterpieces of art, and know the Father in a different way, perhaps an intuitively overwhelming way - almost like the unmistakable instinctive way that must have inspired all those birds when it was time for nest-building. And she would see that her life was like that, a time to build a nest that would become an eternal nest. She would know that life was not about just about biding time and waiting to die, but rather a time to prepare for the life she would live in the forever-ness of another garden even more beautiful than her mother’s wildly enchanting one strewn with slate paths…one more like Eden.
The whole story would emerge from that one little icon of an egg shell on a patch of torn-up asphalt, behind the big pine trees where the sunlight streamed through little peep holes to spotlight it: a little unassuming icon of hope.
I have no idea where this all came from, but it swept over me as if on a cinema screen in 3 dimensions with true-life color and script. I could see the old woman’s long hair, flattened to the back of her head from so much bed rest, and Trudy’s wide eyes full of wonder and love and newly gained confidence in her own identity as a child of God.
Maybe it had been brewing on some back burner somewhere, or was hiding down in the cellar where the story gremlins live, those little dwarf-like fellas who wring their hands and walk the damp floors while conjuring up new material. I don’t know if the story will ever be written, but in any case, the essence/moral has been captured here: life is fleeting but also permanent.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A Picture (i.e. Imagery) is Worth a Thousand Words
I’m the appointed-cheap-labor-editor for Fritz’s Purdue text (would you believe a kindly treated and well appreciated, but UNPAID LABOROR). Yesterday I completed edits on his chapter 5, which happens to be all about budgeting principles used within the construction industry. Most of the content was reasonably straightforward, although of course significantly more technical than anything I’m used to reading or writing.
I learned (a little) about project budgets and company budgets; annual budgets and periodic budgets. Or more honestly, I had minimal exposure to these things, like standing in an open doorway and feeling a breeze blowing through, briefly, without leaving much of a mark. I wondered if word combinations like profit-to-earnings-ratios, return-on-investment, before-tax and after-tax should be hyphenated, but I made notes and I guess The PhD Author (to whom I bow with all due honor) will figure that out later.
So anyway, picture this. I was humming along (not verbally humming a song, like Heard It Through the Grapevine, but just humming in the way a car engine hums on a long and boring trip down the straight interstate where there’s nothing of interest to break the monotony - lalalalalala), reading and reading and reading and reading, and marking and marking and marking technical blah-blah so it smoothed out a little – no orange cones, no road crews to slow things down. This formula tells you this, and that formula tells you that, and blah-blah-blah, and oh yes, remember the gold nugget: MAKE SURE YOU USE A BUDGET. Then in the midst of so many jet-streams of budget-information and budget-numbers and budget-computations, I came across the one-and-only artistically worded sentence in the whole chapter:
“Without a direction, the company drifts with the ever changing economic and political currents of society.”
I lifted my mechanical pencil as if it were a torch. “YES!” Fritz looked at me with eyes that said wow, she’s really getting into this chapter. “THIS SENTENCE is your best yet!” He was definitely impressed – feeling, I’m sure, like I’d finally seen the light, like now budgeting made all the sense in the world and I would run to Dollar General within the hour and buy a ledger to record - and later forecast - all my grocery expenditures. “You’re FINALLY speaking my language!”
“Read it to me,” he said cautiously, with a wistful look on his face.
And so I did. With inflection. And with pauses in just the right places.
“Without a DIRECTION (pause), the company DRIFTS (pause) with the ever changing economic and political CURRENTS (pause) of society.”
“It’s beautiful,” I sighed. He laughed his crinkly-eye laugh, the one he inherited from his mother, and scratched his (balding, professor-ish) head. We both wondered (and marveled) at his momentary lapse – his divergence from the analytical into the creative. “This is all the payment I need.” It was a glorious moment, a time when our octopus tentacles connected via literary means, which simply never happens.
Drifting amid currents. I could see, feel, and remember these images. I don’t remember anything specific about all the rest.
I learned (a little) about project budgets and company budgets; annual budgets and periodic budgets. Or more honestly, I had minimal exposure to these things, like standing in an open doorway and feeling a breeze blowing through, briefly, without leaving much of a mark. I wondered if word combinations like profit-to-earnings-ratios, return-on-investment, before-tax and after-tax should be hyphenated, but I made notes and I guess The PhD Author (to whom I bow with all due honor) will figure that out later.
So anyway, picture this. I was humming along (not verbally humming a song, like Heard It Through the Grapevine, but just humming in the way a car engine hums on a long and boring trip down the straight interstate where there’s nothing of interest to break the monotony - lalalalalala), reading and reading and reading and reading, and marking and marking and marking technical blah-blah so it smoothed out a little – no orange cones, no road crews to slow things down. This formula tells you this, and that formula tells you that, and blah-blah-blah, and oh yes, remember the gold nugget: MAKE SURE YOU USE A BUDGET. Then in the midst of so many jet-streams of budget-information and budget-numbers and budget-computations, I came across the one-and-only artistically worded sentence in the whole chapter:
“Without a direction, the company drifts with the ever changing economic and political currents of society.”
I lifted my mechanical pencil as if it were a torch. “YES!” Fritz looked at me with eyes that said wow, she’s really getting into this chapter. “THIS SENTENCE is your best yet!” He was definitely impressed – feeling, I’m sure, like I’d finally seen the light, like now budgeting made all the sense in the world and I would run to Dollar General within the hour and buy a ledger to record - and later forecast - all my grocery expenditures. “You’re FINALLY speaking my language!”
“Read it to me,” he said cautiously, with a wistful look on his face.
And so I did. With inflection. And with pauses in just the right places.
“Without a DIRECTION (pause), the company DRIFTS (pause) with the ever changing economic and political CURRENTS (pause) of society.”
“It’s beautiful,” I sighed. He laughed his crinkly-eye laugh, the one he inherited from his mother, and scratched his (balding, professor-ish) head. We both wondered (and marveled) at his momentary lapse – his divergence from the analytical into the creative. “This is all the payment I need.” It was a glorious moment, a time when our octopus tentacles connected via literary means, which simply never happens.
Drifting amid currents. I could see, feel, and remember these images. I don’t remember anything specific about all the rest.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The God-Bridge to (Narrow) Highway 60
In a few weeks on my 60th birthday I’ll march/slither (take your pick) over the culturally accepted bridge into senior citizen-dom, never to return. Good-byes are already being said to cute little lacy, cap-sleeved blouses that show off too much upper-arm flab. Cold-weather sports and power-walking on ice-covered roads will be told adios - a response to radical feet-flying-out-from-under-me falls these past two winters. My cast-iron physiology that used to process thousands of calories of junk food a day with no ill effects has become persnickety in a purist sort of way, and requires nothing but the most authentic garden-of-Eden fare. “A refill on my goblet of fresh carrot juice, daaaah-ling,” my senior cells call to me with lifted pinky fingers, like spoiled brats in a swank French restaurant. “And another lovely baby lettuce salad with cold-pressed olive oil.”
The bridge leading to senior-ville (the God-Bridge) appears to be trustworthy. (By the way, Simon and Garfunkle’s song about the bridge over troubled waters was based on lyrics from the Swan Silvertones in 1958: “I’ll be your bridge over deep water if you trust in me.”). Even so, I’m in white-knuckle-mode on this suspension-style, rope-walk-bridge – hanging on to the thick rope railings - as the winds of change howl and a husband who is 60-going-on-18 makes waves while jumping up and down like a kangaroo on the other end.
Hold on a second…while I squiggle the dial and try to refocus these binoculars…ahhh, there we go. Now maybe I can get a glimmer of the hours/days (years/decades?) yet to come.
I see a road – a narrow road. Would you believe there’s stuff all over it? Do-dads, or junk, or…awesome ministry opportunities? Hmmmm. I can’t tell - not yet. Its sweeping curves dip out of sight, and yet murmur invitations: “Lace up the old hiking boots, girl - take one step at a time in those dusty old things, and stay on the road - no exits or detours, just STAY ON HIGHWAY 60.”
My faith in Christ will be reflected in my conduct on that narrow road. I’ve been taught the narrow road is the “less traveled” road (thank you, Robert Frost and Pastors X, Y, and Z), perhaps the quieter, more theologically monastic road, the one zeroed in that leads toward God - while the wide road is full of people-things-busyness. However, the Greek word for narrow road, “thlibo” (thlee’-bo), implies travelers on this road are compressed as they walk, sort of like in the over-populated streets of some European cities. Actually, thlibo can refer to being crowded/squashed/crushed, either literally or figuratively – which seems a fitting platform from which to serve God’s kingdom purposes while being upheld by Him. This thought meshes well with my emerging perspective of suffering: the quintessence of love, to quote St. Faustina.
If the thlibo perception is accurate, then conversely the wide, comfortable, spacious road - busy, but in worldly ways - is well suited for the beatniks (that word dates me!) who cruise through fun-in-the-sun moments in their woodies rather than living for, and in, eternity. As long as I’m still here…and despite near-misses like cancer and frazzle-headedness laced with occasional emotional black holes and panic attacks, I AM still breathing in and out and hiking around in the aforementioned boots…I will choose the narrow road.
When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, I think every believer’s narrow road, in every stage of life, is customized. And so as I approach 60, I want to open up – breathe holistically, take in everything all around and let it fall back on everything just a little bit changed - and step out in hot pursuit after the Lord on the road He has for ME.
Here’s a short Canadian video I found online that speaks to the pastoral country-girl road-walker in me as I head out for Highway 60.
http://www.tangle.com/view_video.php?viewkey=456eb389e9e16384b8e3
________________
Note: For a helpful expository on thlibo, check out this page (scroll about a third of the way down and you’ll see a heading entitled “suffer affliction”). http://www.preceptaustin.org/1thessalonians_34-5.htm
The bridge leading to senior-ville (the God-Bridge) appears to be trustworthy. (By the way, Simon and Garfunkle’s song about the bridge over troubled waters was based on lyrics from the Swan Silvertones in 1958: “I’ll be your bridge over deep water if you trust in me.”). Even so, I’m in white-knuckle-mode on this suspension-style, rope-walk-bridge – hanging on to the thick rope railings - as the winds of change howl and a husband who is 60-going-on-18 makes waves while jumping up and down like a kangaroo on the other end.
Hold on a second…while I squiggle the dial and try to refocus these binoculars…ahhh, there we go. Now maybe I can get a glimmer of the hours/days (years/decades?) yet to come.
I see a road – a narrow road. Would you believe there’s stuff all over it? Do-dads, or junk, or…awesome ministry opportunities? Hmmmm. I can’t tell - not yet. Its sweeping curves dip out of sight, and yet murmur invitations: “Lace up the old hiking boots, girl - take one step at a time in those dusty old things, and stay on the road - no exits or detours, just STAY ON HIGHWAY 60.”
My faith in Christ will be reflected in my conduct on that narrow road. I’ve been taught the narrow road is the “less traveled” road (thank you, Robert Frost and Pastors X, Y, and Z), perhaps the quieter, more theologically monastic road, the one zeroed in that leads toward God - while the wide road is full of people-things-busyness. However, the Greek word for narrow road, “thlibo” (thlee’-bo), implies travelers on this road are compressed as they walk, sort of like in the over-populated streets of some European cities. Actually, thlibo can refer to being crowded/squashed/crushed, either literally or figuratively – which seems a fitting platform from which to serve God’s kingdom purposes while being upheld by Him. This thought meshes well with my emerging perspective of suffering: the quintessence of love, to quote St. Faustina.
If the thlibo perception is accurate, then conversely the wide, comfortable, spacious road - busy, but in worldly ways - is well suited for the beatniks (that word dates me!) who cruise through fun-in-the-sun moments in their woodies rather than living for, and in, eternity. As long as I’m still here…and despite near-misses like cancer and frazzle-headedness laced with occasional emotional black holes and panic attacks, I AM still breathing in and out and hiking around in the aforementioned boots…I will choose the narrow road.
When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, I think every believer’s narrow road, in every stage of life, is customized. And so as I approach 60, I want to open up – breathe holistically, take in everything all around and let it fall back on everything just a little bit changed - and step out in hot pursuit after the Lord on the road He has for ME.
Here’s a short Canadian video I found online that speaks to the pastoral country-girl road-walker in me as I head out for Highway 60.
http://www.tangle.com/view_video.php?viewkey=456eb389e9e16384b8e3
________________
Note: For a helpful expository on thlibo, check out this page (scroll about a third of the way down and you’ll see a heading entitled “suffer affliction”). http://www.preceptaustin.org/1thessalonians_34-5.htm
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Be Anchored - Musings on Being and Doing
Colossians 3:2 – “Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.”
Too often I get tangled up in the process of defining and then dissecting the “things” in this familiar verse: earthly and heavenly. I obsess about what I’m to focus on (specifically), and what not (specifically) – then beat myself up for plowing through a day, or several days, or a week, while “things” like organic roasting chickens, armies of paint brushes, do-or-die weeds in the lake that threaten to take over in the wake of my negligence, emails and more emails, and editing and writing projects (as much as I love ‘em) breathe down my neck like dragons to the exclusion of equal time spent seeking and talking with God. This (human condition) bugs me.
At first glance the Colossians reference seems to fit with Philippians 4:8 – “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.” However, the verbs in these two passages don’t quite match. The Philippians verse says to “think about” (virtuous things), while the one in Colossians says to “set” (your mind). Could this be yet another opportunity to consider the difference between what it means to BE (“be in a set position”) and DO (“think”)?
Both being (passive verb) and doing (active verb) show up in Romans 12:2 – “Do not CONFORM (active) any longer to the pattern of this world, but BE (passive) transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will.”
Anyway, I’ve been chewing on the word “set,” and considering other words that could be synonymous. Maybe “confirm” or “establish.” I think another Bible version uses “fix” instead of “set.” But personally I like “anchor.”
“Anchor your minds on things above, not on earthly things.”
That doesn’t mean earthly things won’t rise to the top and spit in your face, claw for attention, and even knock you down with their brute force. (Ah, you see, sometimes those non-organic roasting chickens get a little bit aggressive, like the feisty old roosters in our hen house who came at you, feet/talons first.) It does mean that in the midst of going about daily stuff, our souls must be anchored in deeper, ultimately more secure places.
This also fits with a favorite verse from Hebrews 6:19: “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
I just decided to do a little skim-the-surface research on anchors. A grapnel anchor is a light anchor for small boats. A mooring anchor holds a buoy or channel marker in place. A mushroom anchor digs in however it falls and is used for semi-permanent moorings. And a sheet or waist anchor is a spare anchor used in emergencies.
Unfortunately I don’t qualify as “small,” so the grapnel doesn’t work, and I’m looking for permanent mooring, so the mushroom and sheet/waist anchors are out. That leaves me with the image of a mooring anchor for my analogy.
“Anchor your minds on things above in a way that confirms YOUR POSITION IN CHRIST, not on earthly things.”
Anyone follow this musing? Thoughts?
Too often I get tangled up in the process of defining and then dissecting the “things” in this familiar verse: earthly and heavenly. I obsess about what I’m to focus on (specifically), and what not (specifically) – then beat myself up for plowing through a day, or several days, or a week, while “things” like organic roasting chickens, armies of paint brushes, do-or-die weeds in the lake that threaten to take over in the wake of my negligence, emails and more emails, and editing and writing projects (as much as I love ‘em) breathe down my neck like dragons to the exclusion of equal time spent seeking and talking with God. This (human condition) bugs me.
At first glance the Colossians reference seems to fit with Philippians 4:8 – “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.” However, the verbs in these two passages don’t quite match. The Philippians verse says to “think about” (virtuous things), while the one in Colossians says to “set” (your mind). Could this be yet another opportunity to consider the difference between what it means to BE (“be in a set position”) and DO (“think”)?
Both being (passive verb) and doing (active verb) show up in Romans 12:2 – “Do not CONFORM (active) any longer to the pattern of this world, but BE (passive) transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will.”
Anyway, I’ve been chewing on the word “set,” and considering other words that could be synonymous. Maybe “confirm” or “establish.” I think another Bible version uses “fix” instead of “set.” But personally I like “anchor.”
“Anchor your minds on things above, not on earthly things.”
That doesn’t mean earthly things won’t rise to the top and spit in your face, claw for attention, and even knock you down with their brute force. (Ah, you see, sometimes those non-organic roasting chickens get a little bit aggressive, like the feisty old roosters in our hen house who came at you, feet/talons first.) It does mean that in the midst of going about daily stuff, our souls must be anchored in deeper, ultimately more secure places.
This also fits with a favorite verse from Hebrews 6:19: “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
I just decided to do a little skim-the-surface research on anchors. A grapnel anchor is a light anchor for small boats. A mooring anchor holds a buoy or channel marker in place. A mushroom anchor digs in however it falls and is used for semi-permanent moorings. And a sheet or waist anchor is a spare anchor used in emergencies.
Unfortunately I don’t qualify as “small,” so the grapnel doesn’t work, and I’m looking for permanent mooring, so the mushroom and sheet/waist anchors are out. That leaves me with the image of a mooring anchor for my analogy.
“Anchor your minds on things above in a way that confirms YOUR POSITION IN CHRIST, not on earthly things.”
Anyone follow this musing? Thoughts?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Plum Dumplings
I just finished making a batch of an old Muehlhausen family favorite, plum dumplings - only with free-stone apricots rather than the usual small Italian prune-plums that are in season only for a miniscule window of time in late summer.
I’ve missed that little peek-hole-of-a-window for the last 2 or 3 years, and consequently poor Fritz has stuck his bottom lip out in disappointment each August and done without any. But today, while he’s laboring and sweating blood over his Purdue writing project (he just lost a couple of pages of inspired composition to the cyber-goblins), and while remodel work is stalled at the Buck Creek house since he’s not there to help find some important papers, I decided to cheer him up as best I could. Food usually works wonders on his dejected spirits…so…apricot dumplings to the rescue.
Historically, plum dumplings came into the family as an art form via Fritz’s grandmother, Minnie Muehlhausen (her Hungarian maiden name was Hermine Mitris). Of course there was no written recipe – a few potatoes, a big egg or two pullet eggs, an overflowing cup of flour. Grandmother’s plum dumplings were a Very Big Deal when Fritz and his siblings were kids; evidently they’d fight over the equitable distribution of this rather odd and very heavy-on-the-starch and light-on-the-sugar dessert.
Not long before she passed away, I asked Grandmother if she’d teach me her craft. She agreed, and we met at the Barnes cottage on the west shore of Maxinkuckee. “Yoous take zee potatoes, zee small but not too small ones, like zees.” She pulled three small-to-medium potatoes from the sack. “Yoous boil them…skins on…until veeer-ly soft.”
Grandmother was a woman of few words, but her facial expressions could be quite stern and penetrating, and therefore carried a lot of weight. I was always just barely afraid of Grandmother for this reason, and yet intuitively I knew her bark was worse than her bite.
Our session was mostly a chance for me to stand on the observation deck next to her housedress-clad, stout little body and watch – although she verbally punctuated the specific techniques imperative to success. I could tell she loved being on center stage with the floodlights blaring. After boiling the potatoes, she rinsed them briefly with cold water, removed the skins, and began smashing them with a dinner fork on a meat platter. “Use zee beeg plate and zee fork to mash. And then cool – must be verrrr-ly cold before adding flour.” I scribbled down some scratchy chicken-track notes that I later condensed onto a recipe card, although most of the process remained stored in my head.
To make a long story short, we spent an entire afternoon making potato dough, encasing “8 or 9 plums – it depends on zee size” with the dough, boiling the resulting dumplings in a big pot of roiling water until just the faintest hint of purple juice started to leak, and then dousing them with browned cracker (originally in Hungary, dry bread) crumbs. It was truly a ceremonious event, and every step took at least three times as long as necessary – which was, after all, the way to savor the job as primarily a relational experience. As far as I know, I’m the only one in the family who studied under Grandmother’s mentorship, but thirty-some years later her plum dumpling legacy is safe with me.
Grandmother lived long enough to see our first child, John, only once. She held him very tightly (holding babies, like everything else, was serious business) while sitting at the Barnes cottage kitchen table, and said nothing. Only when he began nuzzling her and fussing did she mumble, “Yoous out of luck for eating from the Grandmother. I have nothings for you in here.” This was said while patting her chest. “Yoous better go to your mama.”
Meanwhile, someday I hope to introduce John’s children, and Grandmother’s other great-great-grandchildren, to plum dumplings: a homespun tradition that deserves to live on. Maybe someday Clara or Josie, or some other still-unborn granddaughter, will stand at my side and we’ll make Hungarian plum dumplings “like zees.”
I’ve missed that little peek-hole-of-a-window for the last 2 or 3 years, and consequently poor Fritz has stuck his bottom lip out in disappointment each August and done without any. But today, while he’s laboring and sweating blood over his Purdue writing project (he just lost a couple of pages of inspired composition to the cyber-goblins), and while remodel work is stalled at the Buck Creek house since he’s not there to help find some important papers, I decided to cheer him up as best I could. Food usually works wonders on his dejected spirits…so…apricot dumplings to the rescue.
Historically, plum dumplings came into the family as an art form via Fritz’s grandmother, Minnie Muehlhausen (her Hungarian maiden name was Hermine Mitris). Of course there was no written recipe – a few potatoes, a big egg or two pullet eggs, an overflowing cup of flour. Grandmother’s plum dumplings were a Very Big Deal when Fritz and his siblings were kids; evidently they’d fight over the equitable distribution of this rather odd and very heavy-on-the-starch and light-on-the-sugar dessert.
Not long before she passed away, I asked Grandmother if she’d teach me her craft. She agreed, and we met at the Barnes cottage on the west shore of Maxinkuckee. “Yoous take zee potatoes, zee small but not too small ones, like zees.” She pulled three small-to-medium potatoes from the sack. “Yoous boil them…skins on…until veeer-ly soft.”
Grandmother was a woman of few words, but her facial expressions could be quite stern and penetrating, and therefore carried a lot of weight. I was always just barely afraid of Grandmother for this reason, and yet intuitively I knew her bark was worse than her bite.
Our session was mostly a chance for me to stand on the observation deck next to her housedress-clad, stout little body and watch – although she verbally punctuated the specific techniques imperative to success. I could tell she loved being on center stage with the floodlights blaring. After boiling the potatoes, she rinsed them briefly with cold water, removed the skins, and began smashing them with a dinner fork on a meat platter. “Use zee beeg plate and zee fork to mash. And then cool – must be verrrr-ly cold before adding flour.” I scribbled down some scratchy chicken-track notes that I later condensed onto a recipe card, although most of the process remained stored in my head.
To make a long story short, we spent an entire afternoon making potato dough, encasing “8 or 9 plums – it depends on zee size” with the dough, boiling the resulting dumplings in a big pot of roiling water until just the faintest hint of purple juice started to leak, and then dousing them with browned cracker (originally in Hungary, dry bread) crumbs. It was truly a ceremonious event, and every step took at least three times as long as necessary – which was, after all, the way to savor the job as primarily a relational experience. As far as I know, I’m the only one in the family who studied under Grandmother’s mentorship, but thirty-some years later her plum dumpling legacy is safe with me.
Grandmother lived long enough to see our first child, John, only once. She held him very tightly (holding babies, like everything else, was serious business) while sitting at the Barnes cottage kitchen table, and said nothing. Only when he began nuzzling her and fussing did she mumble, “Yoous out of luck for eating from the Grandmother. I have nothings for you in here.” This was said while patting her chest. “Yoous better go to your mama.”
Meanwhile, someday I hope to introduce John’s children, and Grandmother’s other great-great-grandchildren, to plum dumplings: a homespun tradition that deserves to live on. Maybe someday Clara or Josie, or some other still-unborn granddaughter, will stand at my side and we’ll make Hungarian plum dumplings “like zees.”
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Water Dog
I’ve heard the term “water dog” for as long as I can remember, having been labeled as one myself – back when I was a kid who could not be kept out of the lake. “You’re just a little water dog,” the grown-ups would croon. “Ohhh…you cute little water dog, you.” Barf.
But I guess if we want to be technical (do we?), a true water dog is a canine bred to retrieve waterfowl from rivers or lakes, thus allowing his/her master-hunter to be serviced with still-warm, freshly-killed ducks or geese (or whatever other birds live in water environments) while staying high and dry.
However, Fritz jr’s golden retriever named Riley seems to be dealing with a severe retrieval addiction, and can’t wait for hunting season, or even anything that looks remotely like a bird. Instead, he launches himself off the pier like a torpedo toward whatever we throw, usually a tennis ball, with his whole body extended sort of like an amateurish, but daredevil, diver. He literally does classic belly-smacks and sinks out of sight momentarily, only to bob to the surface, paddling madly. He seems unafraid of water depth OR extended distances to or from the object, and is driven like a madman (er, mad dog – Old Yeller? naaaaah...) to repeat the drill immediately AND repeatedly.
Sometimes Riley is put to the extreme test. His master throws a weighted disc (bright-colored plastic circle intended to teach kids to dive underwater) instead of something that floats. Then I feel all smushy and compassionate, and so sorry for him, when he gets this anxious and worried look on his face. He keeps turning this way and that in the water while peering into the depths with his big brown eyes – his head cocked as if in prayer with his muzzle just barely above the surface of the water. He refuses to stop looking for the sunken treasure until we distract him, or in a few cases, he’s been able to grab it from shallow water himself – wooop-wooop, way to go, Riley!
I’m including a couple of pictures here – one of The Soggy Dog waiting patiently with the tennis ball in his mouth, the other of The Very Soggy Dog climbing out of the lake via the swimming ladder. Yes, he taught himself how to use that slippery aluminum ladder at the end of the pier this weekend. I’m sure he thinks he’s human. But alas, we all know he’s just a dog – a very talented, playful, acrobatic, and gutsy WATER DOG.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Small Things; Big Consequences
In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.
- Mother Theresa
Small things. Like deferring. Waiting. Seeking God. Hoping. Saying encouraging things in encouraging ways, and hard things in ways that are best for the other person to hear. Embracing reality. Making yeast rolls at the last minute before dinner, and homemade strawberry shortcake for dessert. Listening to conversation through the chatter-static of tinnitus, despite the fact that it hurts. Accepting visitors’ dog hair on the carpet, cracker crumbs on the couch, clutter and piano pounding and general mayhem. Standing firm when it would be easier to bend, when it is right to do so - or bending when it would be easier to stand firm, when it is right to do so. Bearing the burdens of others voluntarily out of sincere interest; questioning them about the details of their lives, inviting interaction, and showing interest in their pain/suffering. Extending grace. Expressing emotion and giving counsel appropriate to the relationship and situation – no more, no less. Showing appreciation in ways that can't be ignored. Doing the dishes (laundry, housecleaning, whatever) for the ga-zillionth time…as a willing servant and with joy. Believing the best about people even when they prove you wrong. Expecting little of others; expecting God’s presence. Biting your tongue, even when you have good reason to blow off. Putting up with inconvenience. Representing God-given convictions. Resting in the knowledge that God is in control. Looking at life through relational lenses instead of seeing everything as another project in a long to-do list (people included).
I was already familiar with this quote from Mother Theresa, but these are some of the stream-of-consciousness-type-thoughts that came to mind as I re-read it this evening. Small things can, and do, have big consequences.
- Mother Theresa
Small things. Like deferring. Waiting. Seeking God. Hoping. Saying encouraging things in encouraging ways, and hard things in ways that are best for the other person to hear. Embracing reality. Making yeast rolls at the last minute before dinner, and homemade strawberry shortcake for dessert. Listening to conversation through the chatter-static of tinnitus, despite the fact that it hurts. Accepting visitors’ dog hair on the carpet, cracker crumbs on the couch, clutter and piano pounding and general mayhem. Standing firm when it would be easier to bend, when it is right to do so - or bending when it would be easier to stand firm, when it is right to do so. Bearing the burdens of others voluntarily out of sincere interest; questioning them about the details of their lives, inviting interaction, and showing interest in their pain/suffering. Extending grace. Expressing emotion and giving counsel appropriate to the relationship and situation – no more, no less. Showing appreciation in ways that can't be ignored. Doing the dishes (laundry, housecleaning, whatever) for the ga-zillionth time…as a willing servant and with joy. Believing the best about people even when they prove you wrong. Expecting little of others; expecting God’s presence. Biting your tongue, even when you have good reason to blow off. Putting up with inconvenience. Representing God-given convictions. Resting in the knowledge that God is in control. Looking at life through relational lenses instead of seeing everything as another project in a long to-do list (people included).
I was already familiar with this quote from Mother Theresa, but these are some of the stream-of-consciousness-type-thoughts that came to mind as I re-read it this evening. Small things can, and do, have big consequences.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Warren Dunes
Our day at Warren Dunes earned rave reviews. “Can we go again tomorrow?” Jordan asked as we were driving home. That sort of says it all.
Here are pictures to document/commemorate the mountain (dune) climbers, beach bums, and sand castle builders.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Silencing the Dictator
Although I often end up feeling like stretched-out elastic while living between two lifestyles, sometimes it’s also pretty awesome therapy to be a self-induced schizophrenic. Just when the paint cans start to take the upper hand, I can snub them, go on strike at the lake, and stir some other people and activities into the proverbial pot.
Caleb and Jordan (and their mom, our daughter Emily) are here in Michigan with us. Fritz jr. and Riley will join us later tonight. The focus today, while it rained, involved engineering and building super-creative Lego space ships complete with sizzling flame-throwers, dangerous-looking missiles with grenade-laden tips, rotating lazar guns, and little spacemen sitting before keyboards and control panels (or manning ready-for-takeoff, ammunition-loaded pods). I especially loved the space-style foghorns that, in my opinion, unfortunately missed their true calling and belonged aboard steamships on the Mississippi River.
It’s hard to think about painting in this environment.
Tomorrow we plan to visit Warren Dunes on the shores of Lake Michigan where the kid-energy can spill out on those big hills of sand. If it should rain again, we can optionally visit the Curious Kid’s Museum (a hands-on exploratory place) in St. Joseph.
Saturday we hope to see 75-year-old Seth Geim’s 3,000 sq. ft. layouts of model trains (the “Train Barn”) in Portage. He’s spent the last 50 years of his life building intricate and accurate-to-scale gorges, bridges, towns, waterfalls, and other displays in his barn, and then weaving train tracks throughout. After allowing public access for decades, evidently he’s closing his doors in July.
Other alternative activities could include swimming from the boat OUT DEEP (for some reason THAT water is a greater attraction than what’s right out in front of the house), popping pioneer popcorn over an open fire in a mesh basket, and fishing for whatever might be naïve enough to be caught by inexperienced fisher-kids.
Meanwhile, back in that other life, a half-used paint can in our Buck Creek bedroom calls to me with its demanding and insulting voice - but I can only barely hear it: “Never did have much use for folks who leave a job half-done.”
Pshaw. In rebuttal, I stand and shake my fist in the air. “Silence! One more word and I’ll shoot you with my Lego gun!” There. That should do it.
Caleb and Jordan (and their mom, our daughter Emily) are here in Michigan with us. Fritz jr. and Riley will join us later tonight. The focus today, while it rained, involved engineering and building super-creative Lego space ships complete with sizzling flame-throwers, dangerous-looking missiles with grenade-laden tips, rotating lazar guns, and little spacemen sitting before keyboards and control panels (or manning ready-for-takeoff, ammunition-loaded pods). I especially loved the space-style foghorns that, in my opinion, unfortunately missed their true calling and belonged aboard steamships on the Mississippi River.
It’s hard to think about painting in this environment.
Tomorrow we plan to visit Warren Dunes on the shores of Lake Michigan where the kid-energy can spill out on those big hills of sand. If it should rain again, we can optionally visit the Curious Kid’s Museum (a hands-on exploratory place) in St. Joseph.
Saturday we hope to see 75-year-old Seth Geim’s 3,000 sq. ft. layouts of model trains (the “Train Barn”) in Portage. He’s spent the last 50 years of his life building intricate and accurate-to-scale gorges, bridges, towns, waterfalls, and other displays in his barn, and then weaving train tracks throughout. After allowing public access for decades, evidently he’s closing his doors in July.
Other alternative activities could include swimming from the boat OUT DEEP (for some reason THAT water is a greater attraction than what’s right out in front of the house), popping pioneer popcorn over an open fire in a mesh basket, and fishing for whatever might be naïve enough to be caught by inexperienced fisher-kids.
Meanwhile, back in that other life, a half-used paint can in our Buck Creek bedroom calls to me with its demanding and insulting voice - but I can only barely hear it: “Never did have much use for folks who leave a job half-done.”
Pshaw. In rebuttal, I stand and shake my fist in the air. “Silence! One more word and I’ll shoot you with my Lego gun!” There. That should do it.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Protection
Yesterday when the painter was spray-painting the barn walls, his aluminum ladder slipped (with him on it) and ended up falling against (bouncing off) a main power line. At the time, we knew nothing of this incident – and yet within 20 minutes I discovered there was no electricity in the house.
To make a long story short, Duke Energy remedied the problem lickety-split, and then came out to the house to talk to us. The Duke representative said one of THEIR main breakers had flipped. After we got the all facts straight, he said it probably flipped at the exact moment the ladder hit the wire. According to him, the painter could/should have been shocked/burned/killed, but in reality he didn’t feel a thing. The Duke fella just shook his head – “He’s only lucky guy” – and told us about another similar incident when a man was burned (killed); his body charred before anyone could shut off the power to rescue him. In the opinion of the Duke guy, the timing of the breaker must have been perfect, in a split-second kind of way.
Earlier Fritz and I had a conversation with the painter: a black man from South Carolina, 46 years old, who has been painting barns for 26 years. It is brutal work, and yet that’s all he’s ever known. In the context of talking about the dangers of his job, he said he prayed a lot. Based on yesterday’s experience, I now know more about the depth behind that confession. Not only was he protected through the ladder and wire experience, but quite a few hours before that happened, the ladder’s feet slid on mud and he “thought it was all over” – but was able to catch himself with one hand on two-story-high window trim and wrestle the ladder back to an upright position with his legs. At the end of the day, when he was walking around on the steep-pitched roof with no harness or rope, spray-painting the roof panels, he seemed very vulnerable to a potential accident - but finished without incident.
God truly IS faithful to His own.
To make a long story short, Duke Energy remedied the problem lickety-split, and then came out to the house to talk to us. The Duke representative said one of THEIR main breakers had flipped. After we got the all facts straight, he said it probably flipped at the exact moment the ladder hit the wire. According to him, the painter could/should have been shocked/burned/killed, but in reality he didn’t feel a thing. The Duke fella just shook his head – “He’s only lucky guy” – and told us about another similar incident when a man was burned (killed); his body charred before anyone could shut off the power to rescue him. In the opinion of the Duke guy, the timing of the breaker must have been perfect, in a split-second kind of way.
Earlier Fritz and I had a conversation with the painter: a black man from South Carolina, 46 years old, who has been painting barns for 26 years. It is brutal work, and yet that’s all he’s ever known. In the context of talking about the dangers of his job, he said he prayed a lot. Based on yesterday’s experience, I now know more about the depth behind that confession. Not only was he protected through the ladder and wire experience, but quite a few hours before that happened, the ladder’s feet slid on mud and he “thought it was all over” – but was able to catch himself with one hand on two-story-high window trim and wrestle the ladder back to an upright position with his legs. At the end of the day, when he was walking around on the steep-pitched roof with no harness or rope, spray-painting the roof panels, he seemed very vulnerable to a potential accident - but finished without incident.
God truly IS faithful to His own.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Old Farm, New Farm
Back in the never-never-land of our lives when the kids were living out their unrestricted lives running all over our farm property, we owned a book in our library entitled, “Old Farm, New Farm.” In this charming and artfully illustrated story, a farmer gets his act together (finally, after many years and much deferred maintenance) and fixes up the barn, farmhouse, and surrounding areas in such a way that the old place looks totally new.
In some ways we’re pretending to be that farmer, and today (for a low, low price of mega thousands of dollars which I won’t specify here) the barn is being painted. Here are pictures to prove our “old farm” is becoming a “new farm.”
Monday, June 8, 2009
Muehlhausen Gazette (Headlines)
News headlines from today’s feature stories include the following. (Note: * indicates my personal events. Unfortunately headlines are all you get; no stories this time.)
*Caulk Disappears Into Cavernous Cracks
Electricity Disappears from House
Fritz Paints Bedroom Ceiling
*Beth Completes Vantage Editing Job (Barely on Time)
Freddy Begins Converting Electric to 400 AMP
*Lunch: Lake Fish Chowder and Organic BLT’s
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part I
*Priming Bedroom Trim Aggravates Carpal Tunnel
Freddy Works Harder; Electricity Returns to House
*Snacks Served to Guys on Back Porch Swing
Neighbor Drills Drain From Back Field to Our Creek
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part II
Freddy Works (You Already Know How Hard)
*Dinner: Lake Fish Plus Fixin’s – on the Porch
Freddy’s Works After Hours (What a Machine)
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part III
Fritz and Dick Repair Junky Lawn Mower
*Still Priming Bedroom Walls at 8:30
*Caulk Disappears Into Cavernous Cracks
Electricity Disappears from House
Fritz Paints Bedroom Ceiling
*Beth Completes Vantage Editing Job (Barely on Time)
Freddy Begins Converting Electric to 400 AMP
*Lunch: Lake Fish Chowder and Organic BLT’s
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part I
*Priming Bedroom Trim Aggravates Carpal Tunnel
Freddy Works Harder; Electricity Returns to House
*Snacks Served to Guys on Back Porch Swing
Neighbor Drills Drain From Back Field to Our Creek
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part II
Freddy Works (You Already Know How Hard)
*Dinner: Lake Fish Plus Fixin’s – on the Porch
Freddy’s Works After Hours (What a Machine)
Riley Swims in the Creek – Part III
Fritz and Dick Repair Junky Lawn Mower
*Still Priming Bedroom Walls at 8:30
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Fruit-Bearers
An online friend named Laurie has corresponded with me for almost four years, although we’ve never met face-to-face. During that time, she has suffered with a variety of difficult-to-assess and seemingly impossible-to-treat physical ailments as well as stomach-churning relational and emotional challenges. Sometimes she reminds me of Wile-E-Coyote when various cliffs show up just in time to induce serious falls - and then she’s pounded into the ground by huge, random boulders.
In general she’s been resilient – like Wile-E – popping back up and re-inflating after each trauma while maintaining attentive interest in my life. However, in recent months I’ve watched her pass-in-review from hopeful to sad to brittle of spirit. Now she seems to be marching away toward the biggest cliff ever, with no detours in sight.
The mama-bear instinct in me wants to minister to her, maybe because I am almost old enough to be her mother - to blockade more falls somehow and fight off the predatory despair currently stalking her. In actuality I feel like a gnat swarming around on the other end of cyberspace: microscopic and almost invisible.
I can listen and empathize via email, and thus share her misery. I can pray for her, point her back to the Lord, and be His vehicle of mercy. And I can wait – wait with her for more grace and another day.
As I patch walls with aching hands this afternoon (we’re back in Buck Creek), I think of Laurie, alone and unappreciated and quite literally struggling to survive in a small town somewhere with very little family or church support. I am grateful for my husband who tells me I’m the best-est and beautiful-est (gag…but he seems to mean it), for a body that functions reasonably well for being 60 (I can almost leap tall buildings with a single bound, even with extra poundage), and for a job I’m able to accomplish (despite the black-hole-like absence of enthusiasm for physical labor).
When the scales seem imbalanced – when needs seemingly outweigh solutions, pain collapses hope, and work overshadows strength – I want to remember that Laurie and I (all of us) are branches, not vines, and life is not about manipulating outcomes but rather bearing His fruit in His time in His way. That fruit may seem unrecognizable – absent, green, squished, or even rotting – and yet in every case is critical to the scope of eternity, of which we are a part.
In general she’s been resilient – like Wile-E – popping back up and re-inflating after each trauma while maintaining attentive interest in my life. However, in recent months I’ve watched her pass-in-review from hopeful to sad to brittle of spirit. Now she seems to be marching away toward the biggest cliff ever, with no detours in sight.
The mama-bear instinct in me wants to minister to her, maybe because I am almost old enough to be her mother - to blockade more falls somehow and fight off the predatory despair currently stalking her. In actuality I feel like a gnat swarming around on the other end of cyberspace: microscopic and almost invisible.
I can listen and empathize via email, and thus share her misery. I can pray for her, point her back to the Lord, and be His vehicle of mercy. And I can wait – wait with her for more grace and another day.
As I patch walls with aching hands this afternoon (we’re back in Buck Creek), I think of Laurie, alone and unappreciated and quite literally struggling to survive in a small town somewhere with very little family or church support. I am grateful for my husband who tells me I’m the best-est and beautiful-est (gag…but he seems to mean it), for a body that functions reasonably well for being 60 (I can almost leap tall buildings with a single bound, even with extra poundage), and for a job I’m able to accomplish (despite the black-hole-like absence of enthusiasm for physical labor).
When the scales seem imbalanced – when needs seemingly outweigh solutions, pain collapses hope, and work overshadows strength – I want to remember that Laurie and I (all of us) are branches, not vines, and life is not about manipulating outcomes but rather bearing His fruit in His time in His way. That fruit may seem unrecognizable – absent, green, squished, or even rotting – and yet in every case is critical to the scope of eternity, of which we are a part.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Food for Thought (Fish Heads?)
Given:
1. the fact recent evidence is pointing its wicked-witch-bony-finger in the direction of osteopenia and arthritis, and
2. the fact that our daughter Emily tipped me off to a resource about cultural nutritional norms that keep people healthy
….I’m experimenting waaaaaay beyond anything I’ve ever dreamed up in the kitchen (again) which is saying something, since I can be wildly unconventional ANYWAY.
Simply put: bone issues + pain = desperation, open-mindedness and…ta da da…DARING.
Last night Fritz went fishing and brought home two decent-sized crappie, and two bluegill. I asked him to remove the entrails, which he did, and then I threw the whole carcasses - bones, fins, tails, heads and all - in a big pot with some celery, carrot and onion. After 30 minutes of bubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble, I took a peek and discovered…ta da da again…PURE UNADULTERATED FRANKENSTEIN. A tail stuck up above the bubbling water’s surface and waved at me, as if Flipper was desperately trying to escape. The heads were beyond gross – grey, emaciated, with their mouths hanging open and their bottom jaws falling off. The eyes appeared sunken and glassy-but-blind, as if suffering with cataracts gone deathly bad.
Yuck.
However, I stuck with The Plan, and did my witch’s cackle (heh-heh-heh…hee-hee-hee) while continuing to oversee the cauldron phase for another 45 minutes or so. Evidently, the longer you boil bones the more nutrition you extract (in my case, I’m interested especially in calcium), and Asian cultures are known to boil fish bones for a full 24 hours. Some Asians even enjoy fish broth for breakfast – in diametrical opposition to Western nitrate-laden bacon, eggs from sick/caged chickens, and pancakes smothered in fake syrup.
When it came time to drain the stock through a strainer, the solids – the fish-and-vegetable glop - admittedly sent shivers down my spine. It was just plain GORY: strings of celery tangled with fish fins and sprinkled with scales. I could hardly make myself look at the heads resembling some I've seen floating in the lake that have been rotting for a month. However, the broth itself smelled and tasted pleasant and not overly fishy, as I’d imagined. As the pot emptied out and the fish remains hit the trash can, the image of the Wicked Witch of the West simply disappeared: “You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! melting! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness? Oooooh, look out! I'm going! Oooooh! Ooooooh!”
Today I felt very much like Dorothy, the good and sweet child with the ruby red slippers, the one without a hint of guile looking for the Wizard who would help the Scarecrow’s bones grow strong. For lunch, I used the stock to make a fish chowder, and Fritz thinks it’s just about the best fish chowder he’s ever had – given the fact that he’s probably never eaten fish chowder made with fresh-caught lake fish at all before today. But seriously, he says it reminds him of clam chowder, in the sense that it is mildly reminiscent of something sea-creature-ish, but isn’t even remotely hold-you-nose stinky or tastebud-curling. (That was soooo edifying to hear.) Of course it had some evaporated milk added, and carrots/celery/onion/peppers/peas/potatoes, as well as a small amount of flaked fish meat. Sort of like cream-of-vegetable-soup with just the vague-est hint that the Little Mermaid might have left her mark….er, that’s from another story, sorry, but there wasn’t a fish in the Wizard of Oz and somehow the Lion and the Tin Man just didn’t fit.
On a literary (rather than nutritional) note, here’s a quote I ran across last night while waiting for the all the goodies to boil out of those four fish into the broth. It seems worthy of sharing, especially if you remember that, when I found it, I was observing something that rivaled the worst horror movie I’ve ever seen - and so was ecstatic for some comic relief:
To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.
-Woody Allen
1. the fact recent evidence is pointing its wicked-witch-bony-finger in the direction of osteopenia and arthritis, and
2. the fact that our daughter Emily tipped me off to a resource about cultural nutritional norms that keep people healthy
….I’m experimenting waaaaaay beyond anything I’ve ever dreamed up in the kitchen (again) which is saying something, since I can be wildly unconventional ANYWAY.
Simply put: bone issues + pain = desperation, open-mindedness and…ta da da…DARING.
Last night Fritz went fishing and brought home two decent-sized crappie, and two bluegill. I asked him to remove the entrails, which he did, and then I threw the whole carcasses - bones, fins, tails, heads and all - in a big pot with some celery, carrot and onion. After 30 minutes of bubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble, I took a peek and discovered…ta da da again…PURE UNADULTERATED FRANKENSTEIN. A tail stuck up above the bubbling water’s surface and waved at me, as if Flipper was desperately trying to escape. The heads were beyond gross – grey, emaciated, with their mouths hanging open and their bottom jaws falling off. The eyes appeared sunken and glassy-but-blind, as if suffering with cataracts gone deathly bad.
Yuck.
However, I stuck with The Plan, and did my witch’s cackle (heh-heh-heh…hee-hee-hee) while continuing to oversee the cauldron phase for another 45 minutes or so. Evidently, the longer you boil bones the more nutrition you extract (in my case, I’m interested especially in calcium), and Asian cultures are known to boil fish bones for a full 24 hours. Some Asians even enjoy fish broth for breakfast – in diametrical opposition to Western nitrate-laden bacon, eggs from sick/caged chickens, and pancakes smothered in fake syrup.
When it came time to drain the stock through a strainer, the solids – the fish-and-vegetable glop - admittedly sent shivers down my spine. It was just plain GORY: strings of celery tangled with fish fins and sprinkled with scales. I could hardly make myself look at the heads resembling some I've seen floating in the lake that have been rotting for a month. However, the broth itself smelled and tasted pleasant and not overly fishy, as I’d imagined. As the pot emptied out and the fish remains hit the trash can, the image of the Wicked Witch of the West simply disappeared: “You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! melting! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness? Oooooh, look out! I'm going! Oooooh! Ooooooh!”
Today I felt very much like Dorothy, the good and sweet child with the ruby red slippers, the one without a hint of guile looking for the Wizard who would help the Scarecrow’s bones grow strong. For lunch, I used the stock to make a fish chowder, and Fritz thinks it’s just about the best fish chowder he’s ever had – given the fact that he’s probably never eaten fish chowder made with fresh-caught lake fish at all before today. But seriously, he says it reminds him of clam chowder, in the sense that it is mildly reminiscent of something sea-creature-ish, but isn’t even remotely hold-you-nose stinky or tastebud-curling. (That was soooo edifying to hear.) Of course it had some evaporated milk added, and carrots/celery/onion/peppers/peas/potatoes, as well as a small amount of flaked fish meat. Sort of like cream-of-vegetable-soup with just the vague-est hint that the Little Mermaid might have left her mark….er, that’s from another story, sorry, but there wasn’t a fish in the Wizard of Oz and somehow the Lion and the Tin Man just didn’t fit.
On a literary (rather than nutritional) note, here’s a quote I ran across last night while waiting for the all the goodies to boil out of those four fish into the broth. It seems worthy of sharing, especially if you remember that, when I found it, I was observing something that rivaled the worst horror movie I’ve ever seen - and so was ecstatic for some comic relief:
To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.
-Woody Allen
Friday, June 5, 2009
Words and Apples
Words and Apples
Being a would-be-wordsmith is more than a hobby – it’s an everyday JOB; a labor of love (and patience) with drills about once every few minutes or so. This is true in speaking as well as writing, despite the popular opinion of those predisposed to wear word-blinders who are of more analytical-mathematical-technological minds. Words are everywhere, all the time – lurking inside our minds, swimming in a force field around us. They lurk in cyberspace and beyond. It's a privilege to co-exist in the world WITH them; to know the potential of communication. They’re important, and can make or break deals, as well as human hearts, so I want to pick the right/best one as often as possible.
I often mess up, though. It’s really easy to fall into bipolar tendencies with words – especially verbally spoken ones.
Selecting words is sort of like choosing which apple to pick off the tree. I remember when our apple trees along the drive in Buck Creek were loaded, their branches hanging like curved umbrella wires dripping with fruit. You didn’t want to grab a green one and end up tossing it to the calves in the feedlot, those dumb creatures with much less discriminating tastes that were willing to chomp down sour marbles. Better to take your time, scan the options well, and go for one with a reddish blush on the skin - one that smelled fruity and allowed your fingernail to leave a dent. It seems that in some ways, picking words is similar except that once they’re spoken or written, it’s harder to throw them in the feedlot. They’re forever. Even those hard, green ones.
A couple of days ago a man appeared at the back door here in Michigan wearing a vest with wide yellow stripes. I smelled a rat instantly, knowing the electrical people in charge of our power lines have been up-and-down the road for the past year, mercilessly destroying and maiming trees. We’ve trimmed back our maple by the road accordingly, hoping for grace, dreaming that they’d wear blinders as they went past and say good-enough, these people are helping us out here, let’s leave them alone. And yet by definition they are tree terrorists bound by the letter of the law with no creative or situational mindset. I knew we had reason to fear.
The guy was nice enough; he was just doing his job. He said he wants to cut down the maple tree, the whole dignified but already-shaved-on-one-side tree – although he was willing to be kind and give us a coupon to buy a new baby tree, and offered to grind the stump as a perk – small consolations. To give him credit, there was some other higher-up guy to whom we could appeal, although even if HE agreed to save the tree, another major swath would be cut out of its center. The remaining freak would be a trunk with about a fourth of the top leaning off to one side. Cutting it down is probably more desirable, in the end analysis.
He also wants to trim (bald?) two of our giant oaks on the side toward the road. Great.
After receiving this collective bad news I just stood there with a grimace on my face, thinking all these hard, green, spontaneous and unripe thoughts/words I didn’t dare speak out loud: stupid-power-line-people-don’t-they-know-wind-storms-always-come-off-the-lake-and-that-maple-would-never-fall-in-their-lines-and-besides-I-don’t-trust-their-trimming-of-the-oaks-since-it-will-probably-be-more-like-slaughtering-and-beautiful-old-maple-and-oak-trees-don’t-grow-back-overnight. Instead, I knew those words belonged in the feedlot so I looked at the man meekly, and said, “I’m just so sad. So very, very SAD.” My bottom lip quivered. I’m sure he was ready to puke.
Not long after that we decided to visit an organic farm just south of Dowagiac, about 30 minutes from the lake house. The drive was lovely, up and down hilly, pastoral, wind-swept countryside. We found the small store attractive and enticing. I eyed the organic chickens, whole birds shrink-wrapped like big, oversized garbanzo beans. “Do you want one?” Fritz asked.
“Yes. And some beef soup bones. And a box of these strawberries.”
He started to pull the chicken out of the freezer, thinking, I’m sure, he would follow in my wake and be a dutiful service man.
“No-no-no! I’ll get it later…going to look around first, at the rest of the store, then I’ll come back and get what I want so the frozen meat stays frozen until the last minute.” My words were authoritative. They hung in mid-air, like some sort of verbal mace.
He looked at the store attendant sheepishly and muttered, “I need to remember to just be along for the ride and do what I’m told.” Poor guy.
When we got home I realized we hadn’t started draining the hot tub, a several-day-job when you consider the time it takes to balance the water. The tub was a month overdue to be cleaned and with our back-and-forth lifestyle, there wasn’t going to be a better time anytime soon. “OH! We forgot to drain the tub!” I exclaimed, with more than a miniscule measure of irritation in my voice.
“Do you want me to drain it for you now?” Fritz responded.
I stalled, fuming inside. “NO. No, I DO NOT want to do it right now.” Then this torrent of words flew out of my mouth like Niagra Falls, complete with rock-splattering arrogance. “I’m the one who always cleans it – and yet I don’t use it nearly as much as some other people.” Venom might as well have been flying from my tongue.
After storming around and stomping through my 2-mile walk, which is the best holistic therapy I’ve found, I softened. “Would you pull the stopper on the tub for me please? If it drains pretty fast I can still clean it before it gets dark.”
“If you’re up for it,” Fritz said, looking skeptical, as if dodging potential word-grenades while waiting for the next land mine to go off.
I hate it when I’m so mouthy.
That same evening I was editing the 3rd chapter of Fritz’s text he’s been writing for Purdue. Most of the time the corrections are just wording choices, or grammatical tweaks. He’s actually very bright and a pretty decent writer, considering he’s one of those math-minded, analytical-types. But then I came upon a doozie. It deserves to be read slowly, word-for-word, to get the full effect:
“The cost-volume-profit analysis technique provides incite into the how the decision will affect the company’s cost structure and the volume of work required by that cost structure to yield the annual profit goal for the company.”
The whole sentence flew into the feedlot, pronto
Being a would-be-wordsmith is more than a hobby – it’s an everyday JOB; a labor of love (and patience) with drills about once every few minutes or so. This is true in speaking as well as writing, despite the popular opinion of those predisposed to wear word-blinders who are of more analytical-mathematical-technological minds. Words are everywhere, all the time – lurking inside our minds, swimming in a force field around us. They lurk in cyberspace and beyond. It's a privilege to co-exist in the world WITH them; to know the potential of communication. They’re important, and can make or break deals, as well as human hearts, so I want to pick the right/best one as often as possible.
I often mess up, though. It’s really easy to fall into bipolar tendencies with words – especially verbally spoken ones.
Selecting words is sort of like choosing which apple to pick off the tree. I remember when our apple trees along the drive in Buck Creek were loaded, their branches hanging like curved umbrella wires dripping with fruit. You didn’t want to grab a green one and end up tossing it to the calves in the feedlot, those dumb creatures with much less discriminating tastes that were willing to chomp down sour marbles. Better to take your time, scan the options well, and go for one with a reddish blush on the skin - one that smelled fruity and allowed your fingernail to leave a dent. It seems that in some ways, picking words is similar except that once they’re spoken or written, it’s harder to throw them in the feedlot. They’re forever. Even those hard, green ones.
A couple of days ago a man appeared at the back door here in Michigan wearing a vest with wide yellow stripes. I smelled a rat instantly, knowing the electrical people in charge of our power lines have been up-and-down the road for the past year, mercilessly destroying and maiming trees. We’ve trimmed back our maple by the road accordingly, hoping for grace, dreaming that they’d wear blinders as they went past and say good-enough, these people are helping us out here, let’s leave them alone. And yet by definition they are tree terrorists bound by the letter of the law with no creative or situational mindset. I knew we had reason to fear.
The guy was nice enough; he was just doing his job. He said he wants to cut down the maple tree, the whole dignified but already-shaved-on-one-side tree – although he was willing to be kind and give us a coupon to buy a new baby tree, and offered to grind the stump as a perk – small consolations. To give him credit, there was some other higher-up guy to whom we could appeal, although even if HE agreed to save the tree, another major swath would be cut out of its center. The remaining freak would be a trunk with about a fourth of the top leaning off to one side. Cutting it down is probably more desirable, in the end analysis.
He also wants to trim (bald?) two of our giant oaks on the side toward the road. Great.
After receiving this collective bad news I just stood there with a grimace on my face, thinking all these hard, green, spontaneous and unripe thoughts/words I didn’t dare speak out loud: stupid-power-line-people-don’t-they-know-wind-storms-always-come-off-the-lake-and-that-maple-would-never-fall-in-their-lines-and-besides-I-don’t-trust-their-trimming-of-the-oaks-since-it-will-probably-be-more-like-slaughtering-and-beautiful-old-maple-and-oak-trees-don’t-grow-back-overnight. Instead, I knew those words belonged in the feedlot so I looked at the man meekly, and said, “I’m just so sad. So very, very SAD.” My bottom lip quivered. I’m sure he was ready to puke.
Not long after that we decided to visit an organic farm just south of Dowagiac, about 30 minutes from the lake house. The drive was lovely, up and down hilly, pastoral, wind-swept countryside. We found the small store attractive and enticing. I eyed the organic chickens, whole birds shrink-wrapped like big, oversized garbanzo beans. “Do you want one?” Fritz asked.
“Yes. And some beef soup bones. And a box of these strawberries.”
He started to pull the chicken out of the freezer, thinking, I’m sure, he would follow in my wake and be a dutiful service man.
“No-no-no! I’ll get it later…going to look around first, at the rest of the store, then I’ll come back and get what I want so the frozen meat stays frozen until the last minute.” My words were authoritative. They hung in mid-air, like some sort of verbal mace.
He looked at the store attendant sheepishly and muttered, “I need to remember to just be along for the ride and do what I’m told.” Poor guy.
When we got home I realized we hadn’t started draining the hot tub, a several-day-job when you consider the time it takes to balance the water. The tub was a month overdue to be cleaned and with our back-and-forth lifestyle, there wasn’t going to be a better time anytime soon. “OH! We forgot to drain the tub!” I exclaimed, with more than a miniscule measure of irritation in my voice.
“Do you want me to drain it for you now?” Fritz responded.
I stalled, fuming inside. “NO. No, I DO NOT want to do it right now.” Then this torrent of words flew out of my mouth like Niagra Falls, complete with rock-splattering arrogance. “I’m the one who always cleans it – and yet I don’t use it nearly as much as some other people.” Venom might as well have been flying from my tongue.
After storming around and stomping through my 2-mile walk, which is the best holistic therapy I’ve found, I softened. “Would you pull the stopper on the tub for me please? If it drains pretty fast I can still clean it before it gets dark.”
“If you’re up for it,” Fritz said, looking skeptical, as if dodging potential word-grenades while waiting for the next land mine to go off.
I hate it when I’m so mouthy.
That same evening I was editing the 3rd chapter of Fritz’s text he’s been writing for Purdue. Most of the time the corrections are just wording choices, or grammatical tweaks. He’s actually very bright and a pretty decent writer, considering he’s one of those math-minded, analytical-types. But then I came upon a doozie. It deserves to be read slowly, word-for-word, to get the full effect:
“The cost-volume-profit analysis technique provides incite into the how the decision will affect the company’s cost structure and the volume of work required by that cost structure to yield the annual profit goal for the company.”
The whole sentence flew into the feedlot, pronto
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Pierre the Pastry Chef
I woke up this morning thinking about an encounter last week. Here’s the story…
Despite my predominant German, Irish, and British heritage, evidence seems to suggest I might also claim one little teensy-weensy French gene – one occupied by a French bakery chef named Pierre.
Yes, genes are like that. They’re a good place for mutant invasions.
So I suppose I should tell you a little about Pierre. He’s a stout fellow with short legs, mischievous, sparkly eyes, and a waxed handlebar moustache. Every day he wears a flawlessly clean double-breasted white coat with a stand-up collar, and a droopy white chef’s hat. He speaks by yelling with a deep, booming voice, and spits saliva from between wide-spaced teeth with every word. His specialty is mini-cream-puffs (petite choux) stuffed with thick egg custard and drizzled with only the very best French chocolate. Oooo-la-la.
He’s a crafty salesman, and well-versed in psychology, for he seems to peddle he wares or drop suggestive invitations only when I am my weakest.
“Alors! Mon cherie! Comment-allez-vous?” How am I? He knows all too well I’m about to the end of the proverbial rope - !
He bows from the waist as if to honor me, but his motives are skewed. Like most true-blue salesmen, Pierre is a domineering sort, and tends to be insistent. He also is manipulative, a bit of a braggart and stuck on himself. The result is tyranny.
Nutrition and health are important to me. I had been cruising along, eating a diverse array of fruits, salads, nuts and dehydrated crackers (this is not from any genetic heritage, but rather comes from spiritual awakening), feeling very healthy-wealthy-and-wise, and quite satisfied and whole. Eating to live rather than living to eat. But then, in a moment of emotional stress, Pierre recognizes a port of entry – exhaustion – and decides to hit below the belt with an invitation to fail.
“Madame! Voulez-vous du shock-oh-lah (phonetic French for chocolate)?”
He wants to know if I’d like some chocolate, and asks the question with just a touch of meanness and one eyebrow cocked, as if I can’t say afford to say no. I shrivel inside, knowing my weakness. Of course I would like chocolate right now – I’m American and female, and stressed to the max.
First mistake: don’t EVER listen to Pierre.
I shrug him off. “Oh Pierre, get lost.”
But he doesn’t get lost. Instead, he squirms around, pushes all the red-flashing addiction-buttons at once, and invites me to a pity-party. Then I’m really uncomfortable as well as consumed from within, and CAN’T forget him.
“Vous deserve a little treat, non?” He says this so coyly. I hate his wiles.
I sigh, knowing I should tape his pursed mouth shut with duct tape, but I’m too civilized for that. So instead, I don’t do anything.
Second mistake: don’t even attempt to combat Pierre with my own strength. Pierre is totally beyond me. I need to remember that vengence is mine, sayeth the LORD.
Anyway, at the exact moment Pierre spouts off about the chocolate, I happen to be walking through Menards with a variety of paint cans in my cart, preoccupied with a sore back and visions of more sweat and dirty paint rollers awaiting me at home. A rather large display of candies seems to stretch for miles down the length of one entire aisle. I can smell the sugar in the air and feel my saliva flowing like at the dentist’s around my teeth.
I walk right by, nose in the air, denying my appetites, proud to be exempt from the addictive pull by virtue of sheer (brute) intellectual override. But alas, at the other end of the store I turn around like a mechanical toy and march right back to the candy display.
“Voila!” Pierre points at the candy, jabbing with both forefingers and nodding with eyes as big as saucers. “VOILA!”
I stare at all the choices right there within my grasp (the third mistake), and sheepishly pick up a smallish, theater-sized box of chocolate-covered peanuts on sale for a dollar.
“Bon, bon…mais oui!” shouts Pierre. “Day-lee-schuses (phonetic French for delicious)!”
“Stuff it, Pierre,” I mumble under my breath. “You’re such a pain in the neck.”
“Madame! Quelle surprise!” He seems truly shocked. But in reality he knows different. I’m constantly reminding him I’d like to cram him in a pastry tube and squeeze him into little star-shapes, once and for all.
In the car, I consume the entire box before I get to the first stoplight, and then check my teeth in the rear-view mirror for any tell-tale brown blobs.
“I really do hate you, Pierre.” I say it without sparing any malice.
“Je suis desole,” He says, with downcast eyes. But I know he’s NOT sorry. He loves being in charge. He loves WINNING, and will retreat to his little kitchenette where he will gleefully rub his hands together and plot the next enticement.
Someday, with God’s help, I’m getting rid of him – for good. Someday I will not have to deal with his guerilla intimidation. I mean he IS an imposter, after all – I have no true French blood in me that I know of.
Despite my predominant German, Irish, and British heritage, evidence seems to suggest I might also claim one little teensy-weensy French gene – one occupied by a French bakery chef named Pierre.
Yes, genes are like that. They’re a good place for mutant invasions.
So I suppose I should tell you a little about Pierre. He’s a stout fellow with short legs, mischievous, sparkly eyes, and a waxed handlebar moustache. Every day he wears a flawlessly clean double-breasted white coat with a stand-up collar, and a droopy white chef’s hat. He speaks by yelling with a deep, booming voice, and spits saliva from between wide-spaced teeth with every word. His specialty is mini-cream-puffs (petite choux) stuffed with thick egg custard and drizzled with only the very best French chocolate. Oooo-la-la.
He’s a crafty salesman, and well-versed in psychology, for he seems to peddle he wares or drop suggestive invitations only when I am my weakest.
“Alors! Mon cherie! Comment-allez-vous?” How am I? He knows all too well I’m about to the end of the proverbial rope - !
He bows from the waist as if to honor me, but his motives are skewed. Like most true-blue salesmen, Pierre is a domineering sort, and tends to be insistent. He also is manipulative, a bit of a braggart and stuck on himself. The result is tyranny.
Nutrition and health are important to me. I had been cruising along, eating a diverse array of fruits, salads, nuts and dehydrated crackers (this is not from any genetic heritage, but rather comes from spiritual awakening), feeling very healthy-wealthy-and-wise, and quite satisfied and whole. Eating to live rather than living to eat. But then, in a moment of emotional stress, Pierre recognizes a port of entry – exhaustion – and decides to hit below the belt with an invitation to fail.
“Madame! Voulez-vous du shock-oh-lah (phonetic French for chocolate)?”
He wants to know if I’d like some chocolate, and asks the question with just a touch of meanness and one eyebrow cocked, as if I can’t say afford to say no. I shrivel inside, knowing my weakness. Of course I would like chocolate right now – I’m American and female, and stressed to the max.
First mistake: don’t EVER listen to Pierre.
I shrug him off. “Oh Pierre, get lost.”
But he doesn’t get lost. Instead, he squirms around, pushes all the red-flashing addiction-buttons at once, and invites me to a pity-party. Then I’m really uncomfortable as well as consumed from within, and CAN’T forget him.
“Vous deserve a little treat, non?” He says this so coyly. I hate his wiles.
I sigh, knowing I should tape his pursed mouth shut with duct tape, but I’m too civilized for that. So instead, I don’t do anything.
Second mistake: don’t even attempt to combat Pierre with my own strength. Pierre is totally beyond me. I need to remember that vengence is mine, sayeth the LORD.
Anyway, at the exact moment Pierre spouts off about the chocolate, I happen to be walking through Menards with a variety of paint cans in my cart, preoccupied with a sore back and visions of more sweat and dirty paint rollers awaiting me at home. A rather large display of candies seems to stretch for miles down the length of one entire aisle. I can smell the sugar in the air and feel my saliva flowing like at the dentist’s around my teeth.
I walk right by, nose in the air, denying my appetites, proud to be exempt from the addictive pull by virtue of sheer (brute) intellectual override. But alas, at the other end of the store I turn around like a mechanical toy and march right back to the candy display.
“Voila!” Pierre points at the candy, jabbing with both forefingers and nodding with eyes as big as saucers. “VOILA!”
I stare at all the choices right there within my grasp (the third mistake), and sheepishly pick up a smallish, theater-sized box of chocolate-covered peanuts on sale for a dollar.
“Bon, bon…mais oui!” shouts Pierre. “Day-lee-schuses (phonetic French for delicious)!”
“Stuff it, Pierre,” I mumble under my breath. “You’re such a pain in the neck.”
“Madame! Quelle surprise!” He seems truly shocked. But in reality he knows different. I’m constantly reminding him I’d like to cram him in a pastry tube and squeeze him into little star-shapes, once and for all.
In the car, I consume the entire box before I get to the first stoplight, and then check my teeth in the rear-view mirror for any tell-tale brown blobs.
“I really do hate you, Pierre.” I say it without sparing any malice.
“Je suis desole,” He says, with downcast eyes. But I know he’s NOT sorry. He loves being in charge. He loves WINNING, and will retreat to his little kitchenette where he will gleefully rub his hands together and plot the next enticement.
Someday, with God’s help, I’m getting rid of him – for good. Someday I will not have to deal with his guerilla intimidation. I mean he IS an imposter, after all – I have no true French blood in me that I know of.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Holistic Arthritis
Either I’ve injured my hands with so much recent manual labor, or else I’m noticing the beginnings of arthritis in them: general stiffness, soreness, swelling at the joints. The pinky finger on my left hand is particularly puffy and upset. It keeps yelling, in a very snotty and insistent voice. “I really, really don’t want to bend – and you can’t make me!”
The arthritic possibility comes as somewhat of a shock, but it shouldn’t be – arthritis often inserts itself as a stiffener when the years pile up. It actually makes me wonder about the rest of me, and the creakiness of everything. Maybe there’s nerve-and-brain arthritis and heart-and-soul arthritis in progress, too.
We’re back at the lake in Michigan for a few days. I’m grateful for escape from the Buck Creek house, the physical work that reminds me of my ancient status, but also the emotional underpinnings – those needle-ish feelings that tend to stick me like a pincushion until I’m raw with their bee-stings.
My heart currently says my cup runneth over a little bit too much, I’m too rooted in that house, and have too many memories and connections there. I care too much about the old junker, love-hate the fact that it will be all fixed up better than ever before, even with AIR CONDITIONING and NEW WINDOWS. I love it that the house will be in such great shape, but hate it as well since we’ll LEAVE and not be the ones to share its newly gained fitness level. When we’re there I can’t escape this high-alert sense that something is upside-down and backwards, the puzzle pieces are scattered, and I can’t find a way to make them fit. I guess that’s evidence of emotional arthritis.
I keep telling myself I’m doing all the hand/arm/shoulder/back-breaking work in the midst of sad-angry-pangs “for the least of these,” some buyer who is, for my illustrative purposes, Jesus Himself. That centers me.
But for now I’ll wrap this stiff left pinkie finger around a glass of icy mint tea and invite my auditory companion, Sound Therapy (this will be Day #190), to sit with me beside the oh-so-calm-and-still lake. I’ll cool my throat and the water will visually wash away the mental cobwebs while I listen to the violins talk to my tinnitus.
As a side note, I feel broadsided by people who talk about wrestling with God as if it’s a one-time event. Conversely, I believe we’re in Jacob’s shoes every morning. I think most of life is about dealing with spiritual arthritis, and inviting and re-inviting Him to keep the inner man lubricated. Otherwise we fall into rigor mortis of the spirit – and life gets a little smelly.
The arthritic possibility comes as somewhat of a shock, but it shouldn’t be – arthritis often inserts itself as a stiffener when the years pile up. It actually makes me wonder about the rest of me, and the creakiness of everything. Maybe there’s nerve-and-brain arthritis and heart-and-soul arthritis in progress, too.
We’re back at the lake in Michigan for a few days. I’m grateful for escape from the Buck Creek house, the physical work that reminds me of my ancient status, but also the emotional underpinnings – those needle-ish feelings that tend to stick me like a pincushion until I’m raw with their bee-stings.
My heart currently says my cup runneth over a little bit too much, I’m too rooted in that house, and have too many memories and connections there. I care too much about the old junker, love-hate the fact that it will be all fixed up better than ever before, even with AIR CONDITIONING and NEW WINDOWS. I love it that the house will be in such great shape, but hate it as well since we’ll LEAVE and not be the ones to share its newly gained fitness level. When we’re there I can’t escape this high-alert sense that something is upside-down and backwards, the puzzle pieces are scattered, and I can’t find a way to make them fit. I guess that’s evidence of emotional arthritis.
I keep telling myself I’m doing all the hand/arm/shoulder/back-breaking work in the midst of sad-angry-pangs “for the least of these,” some buyer who is, for my illustrative purposes, Jesus Himself. That centers me.
But for now I’ll wrap this stiff left pinkie finger around a glass of icy mint tea and invite my auditory companion, Sound Therapy (this will be Day #190), to sit with me beside the oh-so-calm-and-still lake. I’ll cool my throat and the water will visually wash away the mental cobwebs while I listen to the violins talk to my tinnitus.
As a side note, I feel broadsided by people who talk about wrestling with God as if it’s a one-time event. Conversely, I believe we’re in Jacob’s shoes every morning. I think most of life is about dealing with spiritual arthritis, and inviting and re-inviting Him to keep the inner man lubricated. Otherwise we fall into rigor mortis of the spirit – and life gets a little smelly.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Small Print
We’re a nation of clammer-uppers (surface-level when it comes to sharing), which evidently is the cultural norm. If we’re here to help and support each other and be God’s vehicles, which I think we are, then why is this the case? We paint these euphoric-looking canvases of still-life-fruit when really the pot is boiling over and there aren’t enough rags to clean up the mess. Or on the other hand, we deny God’s grace and mercy by covertly omitting any conversational evidence of it in lieu of topics like weather, news headlines, hairstyles and diet fads.
Anne Lamott gets to me because she’s an incredibly talented writer, but also because she’s eccentric and odd, observant and submitted to God (in her way): quirky but brazenly real. AND she invites her readers to dive into the Small Print of life where they can be their own version of quirky and real with her. Do I agree with everything she says, or how she says it? No. Sometimes I’m shocked and even a little bit embarrassed or offended. But am I set free to be my own quirky self, one searching for (and discovering) Light in the midst of fallen life in a fallen world? Yes. THAT is priceless.
I wonder if, someday when I’m gone, my great-grandchildren will be curious to know who I was, and if they’ll read these blogs (if they survive, that is, which is doubtful) and/or my FaithWriter entries and/or other stuff I’ve written down in black-and-white. Who would I be, emerging from the woven fabric of these words? Maybe an insecure and tentative but authentic person, someone willing to open up about the pot boiling over and the measures of mercy that show up to counterbalance the spills, someone sold out to God while walking the front lines of her own life.
Anne Lamott gets to me because she’s an incredibly talented writer, but also because she’s eccentric and odd, observant and submitted to God (in her way): quirky but brazenly real. AND she invites her readers to dive into the Small Print of life where they can be their own version of quirky and real with her. Do I agree with everything she says, or how she says it? No. Sometimes I’m shocked and even a little bit embarrassed or offended. But am I set free to be my own quirky self, one searching for (and discovering) Light in the midst of fallen life in a fallen world? Yes. THAT is priceless.
I wonder if, someday when I’m gone, my great-grandchildren will be curious to know who I was, and if they’ll read these blogs (if they survive, that is, which is doubtful) and/or my FaithWriter entries and/or other stuff I’ve written down in black-and-white. Who would I be, emerging from the woven fabric of these words? Maybe an insecure and tentative but authentic person, someone willing to open up about the pot boiling over and the measures of mercy that show up to counterbalance the spills, someone sold out to God while walking the front lines of her own life.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Love You To Death OR To Pieces?
I wonder where some of our colloquial expressions of love originated? Like when a proud grandmother leans over her darling grandbaby and says, “Tootsy wootsy, you little shugums-woogums-cutie-pie, I just love you TO DEATH!” Or, “Hey there you little sweetsie-cola-honey-bundle, I love you TO PIECES (or bits)!”
The baby talk is automatic – I get that part. But my question is this. Why do we say these things about death and being fractured? Why don’t we say, “I love you to LIFE!” Or, “I love you to WHOLENESS?”
This baffles me. But then again, I know I put too much weight on words.
I guess the death comment is supposed to be a way of saying, “I will love you unconditionally until death.” Then why don’t we say that? And the pieces comment is supposed to be about loving a person’s every little thing, the way they hold silverware or tilt their head sideways or look with big, goony eyes at chocolate cake. “I will love every teeny bit of you, everything you are and do and will ever be, faults and all.”
At the very least I think we should start saying, “I will love you AS LONG AS YOU LIVE” and “I love EVERY STINKIN’ BIT (piece) of you.”
But that’s just what I think.
The baby talk is automatic – I get that part. But my question is this. Why do we say these things about death and being fractured? Why don’t we say, “I love you to LIFE!” Or, “I love you to WHOLENESS?”
This baffles me. But then again, I know I put too much weight on words.
I guess the death comment is supposed to be a way of saying, “I will love you unconditionally until death.” Then why don’t we say that? And the pieces comment is supposed to be about loving a person’s every little thing, the way they hold silverware or tilt their head sideways or look with big, goony eyes at chocolate cake. “I will love every teeny bit of you, everything you are and do and will ever be, faults and all.”
At the very least I think we should start saying, “I will love you AS LONG AS YOU LIVE” and “I love EVERY STINKIN’ BIT (piece) of you.”
But that’s just what I think.
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