Yesterday evening as the sun dropped low in the sky, I took an after-baseboard-painting stroll around Buck Creek to work the kinks out of my back. Many people had recently mowed their grass, and after the day’s off-and-on rain, the air was thick with wet, green smells. Not a breath of air moved, and a sort-of consoling hush hung in the stillness. An almost-full man-in-the-moon looked down out of a cloudless periwinkle sky.
I passed by homes defined by “chronic deferred maintenance”; the well-kept baseball diamond; the yard with the two yip-yappy schnauzers; the swollen creek; the little country church we attended for many years with its streaky-colored-stained-glass windows. Not a single other person was out and about, and I liked the relative solitude.
However, a very cute Buck Creek urchin joined me for the equivalent of a city block, a little girl who was maybe 6 years old judging from the fact that a couple of her front teeth were missing. This small-scale beauty-in-waiting had curly red-orange hair, fair skin, and a delicate pixie-nose. She was riding a beat-up pink bicycle (smaller than 20-inch, even), and wore very dirty, ragged hot-pink warm-up pants and a mauve-pink (not matching) knit top.
Some sort of cheap-looking silver charm necklace hung around her neck, and she insisted on holding a charm in her mouth while riding alongside and talking to me. “Guggmeamahciohgichsdphsigoe,” she said, or something very similar.
“What did you say?” I replied.
She repeated her greeting and looked at me (through me?) with the clearest, crystal-clear blue eyes – totally unhindered by pretense, apology or embarrassment.
I stopped and faced her. “You know, I don’t hear very well, and with that necklace in your mouth I can’t hear you at all! Can you take it out and try again?”
She held the charm protectively in one hand, cocked her head coquettishly, and sort of half-whispered, “I have a necklace. They’re practicing over there (the ball diamond). This road is going to my house. What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I’m just taking a walk,” I said. I smiled and was polite and pleasant. But I didn’t go out of my way to learn her name or initiate conversation even though in my heart I knew – I JUST KNEW – she needed a friend. My excuse at the time was that I wanted to savor the quiet of the evening, and laboring over a conversation with a necklace-chewer the whole time sounded stressful. Even as I rationalized I knew it was a lousy excuse.
“Walking for exercise?” she pressed.
“Yes, exercise.”
“There’s a mean dog up there – do you know that?”
“Yes, I do.” I said this with a smile in my voice and on my face, but didn’t even thank her for the warning. “I’ll turn before I get to him.”
With that, she rode off ahead of me, her baggy pink pants flopping with each stroke of the pedals. As I watched her ride off, the scripture verse about “the least of these” popped into my head.
All these hours later, I can still see her eyes.
_________________________________
Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed [thee]? or thirsty, and gave [thee] drink?
When saw we thee a stranger, and too [thee} in? or naked, and clothed [thee]?
Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done [it] unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done [it] unto me.
Mt 25:34-40 KJV
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Caution: WET PAINT
Wet paint, wet paint, smells of wet paint make me faint.
Stroking, rolling, reaching corners – I just cain’t!
Nail holes, scuff marks, places nicked by this and that.
Ooey, gooey, on some wet paint I just sat!
How much longer will I paint these dear old walls?
I guess for as long as “painting duty” calls.
Right now it’s break time for l’il ‘ole painter me.
Bye-bye paint, I’m pouring a glass of tea!
Stroking, rolling, reaching corners – I just cain’t!
Nail holes, scuff marks, places nicked by this and that.
Ooey, gooey, on some wet paint I just sat!
How much longer will I paint these dear old walls?
I guess for as long as “painting duty” calls.
Right now it’s break time for l’il ‘ole painter me.
Bye-bye paint, I’m pouring a glass of tea!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Hubby Funnies
Below is a sampling of yesterday’s funnies, a la my ridiculous husband, who I’m sure God placed in my life to add color to an otherwise ordinary, plain-Jane, all-to-introspective existence. Picture these doozies in comic-strip form if you feel creative, and let your imagination fill in the blanks. You’ll probably be pretty close to the real thing if you end up smiling even a teeny bit.
______________________________
Hubby Funnie #1
“Hey! How was fishing?” I ask this with modest enthusiasm, mostly trying to be nice while listening with half an ear.
“Good – got a blah-blah along this shoreline, a blah-blah in that cove, a blah-blah on the other shoreline, and a blah-blah around the bend in that shallow place. The blah-blah bait worked the best.”
“Glad you had good luck, then.”
“Yeah, and the biggest one, a really nice Blah-Blah, would have been fourteen inches on a stretcher.”
Being a straight-shooter, I first picture a fish on an emergency cot – the kind used to carry victims from the scene of an accident to the ambulance. Of course that made no sense at all, and while standing there with my mouth hanging open, I realize I missed the point (no surprise) and he’s talking about a S-T-R-E-T-C-H-E-R, like the rack kind of stretcher. So then I picture one of those medieval torture things with my husband at the wheel, and a bass with a jutting lower lip and buggy, bulging slime-eyes being stretched beyond his fishy self to meet the desired length. I know, I know, a bit sadistic, but a little funny, too – or at least I thought so.
______________________________
Hubby Funnie #2
Fritz is one of three 60-and-older guys reclining in various slouched positions (with pronounced stomachs) on the neighbor’s patio, sipping beer in the late afternoon. I approach, the fair damsel who dares to enter the lion’s den.
“Hey look, it’s the old fart club!” I announce.
“Heh, heh, heh – the old fart club, that’s us all right.”
“Yeah, I could tell.”
“So – you wanna beer?” (This from the hosting neighbor.)
“No thanks.”
“No beer?”
“No, she only drinks scotch.” (This from my adorable husband.)
“That’s not true!” (blah-blah-blah, I offer my defense.)
“Pepsi?”
“No thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Not even a Pepsi?”
I look at him like, c’mon, you asked me that already.
“Water?”
“Oh, okay – you’re such the great host – thanks!”
The neighbor brings a squat-looking glass of clear liquid.
“Here you go – 100% pure Russian vodka – enjoy!”
Leave it to a glass of water to bring down the house. Nothing like a little gender-specific chorteling/guffawing to break up an otherwise ordinary day. I chugged the water, by the way, and he offered me seconds!
__________________________
Hubby Funnie #3
We’re driving down a country road, bump-bumping through mega-ruts made by winter freeze-and-thaw.
“Hey look,” Fritz says, pointing.
“What?” I peer along the road, but see nothing extraordinary – just an old farmhouse and some junk.
“There’s a slug on the windshield!”
I look with nearsighted vision, and sure enough, this long, slimy thing is barely resisting the g-forces on the outside of the windshield, sort of scoot-scooting his way along while valiantly trying to hold his own. His undersides are creepy fluorescent lime green, and he has little gooey appendages that look like sticky suction cups. I feel sort of sorry for him out there clinging for dear life.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask this with the pathetic mama-nurturing side of me showing, like oh my, you have to save the poor thing.
Fritz immediately flicks on the windshield wipers with great flourish. Ta-da!
“HA HA HA!” He laughs gleefully while bouncing back and forth between the steering wheel and the seat. Meanwhile, we’re going 55 and still dodging holes in the road, and the wipers are smearing slug guts in front of us. “Guess I slimed him! Look at that grease slick! LOOK! Mu-hahahahaha!”
Well, okay – I realize it may not seem funny reading it, maybe even rudely gross, but I did crack up at the time. It was the little-boyish part that got to me, and Fritz’s sheer delight in pulling a fast one on that poor, unsuspecting slug. I guess it’s okay to pretend you’re ten instead of sixty every once in a while.
_________________________
Hubby Funnie #4
We’re still driving in the car.
“I need to call Ned,” Fritz says.
I don’t know any Neds, never have, and since I often don’t hear correctly, I ask for clarification.
“Who?”
“Ned!”
“Ned? Did you say NED?”
“Yes, Ned.”
“Seriously, Ned? Who’s Ned?”
(pause)
“NED! NED RYERSON!”
Then he launches into the whole Groundhog Day movie scene.
“Hey now, don't you tell me you don't remember me 'cause I sure as heckfire remember you. C'mon, buddy. Case Western High…Ned Ryerson! I dated your sister Mary Pat a couple of times until you told me not to anymore? Well?”
“Ned Ryerson?”
“BING!”
After some prodding, it turns out Ned is the name of the administrator in the Indianapolis BSF class – but how I was supposed to know this I will never be able to guess. The comment about calling Ned just showed up out of thin air with no context, except that we were both wondering about our enrollments for the fall session (study of the gospel of John). No doubt this was just another in a long line that of movie-quote-set-ups that was intentionally placed in the midst of everyday conversation to confound and confuse my simplistic and unsuspecting mind. But as usual, after slugging Fritz in the arm, I ended up laughing.
______________________________
Hubby Funnie #1
“Hey! How was fishing?” I ask this with modest enthusiasm, mostly trying to be nice while listening with half an ear.
“Good – got a blah-blah along this shoreline, a blah-blah in that cove, a blah-blah on the other shoreline, and a blah-blah around the bend in that shallow place. The blah-blah bait worked the best.”
“Glad you had good luck, then.”
“Yeah, and the biggest one, a really nice Blah-Blah, would have been fourteen inches on a stretcher.”
Being a straight-shooter, I first picture a fish on an emergency cot – the kind used to carry victims from the scene of an accident to the ambulance. Of course that made no sense at all, and while standing there with my mouth hanging open, I realize I missed the point (no surprise) and he’s talking about a S-T-R-E-T-C-H-E-R, like the rack kind of stretcher. So then I picture one of those medieval torture things with my husband at the wheel, and a bass with a jutting lower lip and buggy, bulging slime-eyes being stretched beyond his fishy self to meet the desired length. I know, I know, a bit sadistic, but a little funny, too – or at least I thought so.
______________________________
Hubby Funnie #2
Fritz is one of three 60-and-older guys reclining in various slouched positions (with pronounced stomachs) on the neighbor’s patio, sipping beer in the late afternoon. I approach, the fair damsel who dares to enter the lion’s den.
“Hey look, it’s the old fart club!” I announce.
“Heh, heh, heh – the old fart club, that’s us all right.”
“Yeah, I could tell.”
“So – you wanna beer?” (This from the hosting neighbor.)
“No thanks.”
“No beer?”
“No, she only drinks scotch.” (This from my adorable husband.)
“That’s not true!” (blah-blah-blah, I offer my defense.)
“Pepsi?”
“No thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Not even a Pepsi?”
I look at him like, c’mon, you asked me that already.
“Water?”
“Oh, okay – you’re such the great host – thanks!”
The neighbor brings a squat-looking glass of clear liquid.
“Here you go – 100% pure Russian vodka – enjoy!”
Leave it to a glass of water to bring down the house. Nothing like a little gender-specific chorteling/guffawing to break up an otherwise ordinary day. I chugged the water, by the way, and he offered me seconds!
__________________________
Hubby Funnie #3
We’re driving down a country road, bump-bumping through mega-ruts made by winter freeze-and-thaw.
“Hey look,” Fritz says, pointing.
“What?” I peer along the road, but see nothing extraordinary – just an old farmhouse and some junk.
“There’s a slug on the windshield!”
I look with nearsighted vision, and sure enough, this long, slimy thing is barely resisting the g-forces on the outside of the windshield, sort of scoot-scooting his way along while valiantly trying to hold his own. His undersides are creepy fluorescent lime green, and he has little gooey appendages that look like sticky suction cups. I feel sort of sorry for him out there clinging for dear life.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask this with the pathetic mama-nurturing side of me showing, like oh my, you have to save the poor thing.
Fritz immediately flicks on the windshield wipers with great flourish. Ta-da!
“HA HA HA!” He laughs gleefully while bouncing back and forth between the steering wheel and the seat. Meanwhile, we’re going 55 and still dodging holes in the road, and the wipers are smearing slug guts in front of us. “Guess I slimed him! Look at that grease slick! LOOK! Mu-hahahahaha!”
Well, okay – I realize it may not seem funny reading it, maybe even rudely gross, but I did crack up at the time. It was the little-boyish part that got to me, and Fritz’s sheer delight in pulling a fast one on that poor, unsuspecting slug. I guess it’s okay to pretend you’re ten instead of sixty every once in a while.
_________________________
Hubby Funnie #4
We’re still driving in the car.
“I need to call Ned,” Fritz says.
I don’t know any Neds, never have, and since I often don’t hear correctly, I ask for clarification.
“Who?”
“Ned!”
“Ned? Did you say NED?”
“Yes, Ned.”
“Seriously, Ned? Who’s Ned?”
(pause)
“NED! NED RYERSON!”
Then he launches into the whole Groundhog Day movie scene.
“Hey now, don't you tell me you don't remember me 'cause I sure as heckfire remember you. C'mon, buddy. Case Western High…Ned Ryerson! I dated your sister Mary Pat a couple of times until you told me not to anymore? Well?”
“Ned Ryerson?”
“BING!”
After some prodding, it turns out Ned is the name of the administrator in the Indianapolis BSF class – but how I was supposed to know this I will never be able to guess. The comment about calling Ned just showed up out of thin air with no context, except that we were both wondering about our enrollments for the fall session (study of the gospel of John). No doubt this was just another in a long line that of movie-quote-set-ups that was intentionally placed in the midst of everyday conversation to confound and confuse my simplistic and unsuspecting mind. But as usual, after slugging Fritz in the arm, I ended up laughing.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Liturgical Rescue
Last night at 4:00 a.m. I awoke after a terrifying dream (I was not able to save one of our young children who died in dire circumstances) to the scream of tinnitus. The noise only seemed to perpetuate the horrific emotion of the dream, and I found myself laying there, panic-stricken in the dark of night. It seemed there was no solace or escape since the noise NEVER leaves me alone.
The hours dragged on, but at some point of in-and-out sleep and strange dreams, my mind focused on the Lutheran liturgy I memorized as a young adult, complete with its chant-like- tune. Interestingly, I didn’t begin to understand what I was singing at the time I learned it, and yet it came alive for me in my moment of despair:
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence,
And take not thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation,
And uphold me with thy free spirit.
Fortunately, those God-words did battle with the noise (an inner war) and I eventually was able to sleep. Upon waking (thank you, Lord, I could sleep in late by myself), they refused to leave me. I find myself living out the day with these words repeating themselves internally, almost like a recording on auto-play. They are restorative: beyond comforting.
I’d made note of the fact some time ago that this liturgical chant was taken from Psalm 51:10-12, and I looked it up again in the NIV:
Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from your presence of take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.
Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase via The Message is interesting:
God, make a fresh start in me, shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
Don’t throw me out with the trash, or fail to breathe holiness in me.
Bring me back from gray exile, and put a fresh wind in my sails!
I also checked out the Latin Vulgate Bible (thanks, John!), where it occurs as Psalm 50:12-14:
Create a clean heart in me, O God: and renew a right spirit within my bowels. Cast me not away from thy face; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation, and strengthen me with a perfect spirit.
The commonalities are obvious: pleas for God’s presence and Spirit and therefore re-creation/sustaining/upholding/deep renewal at the heart level and joy in His ongoing salvation. It is also interesting to note that David wrote this psalm after committing adultery with Bathsheba.
I’m grateful for even my limited/incomplete understanding of kairos, or God-time. as it intersects with chronos, or earth-time. I can see how God touched David to author this in a kairos moment. I can also see this liturgical “implant” years ago being a provision from God - one that came to mind in a specific moment when I desperately needed Him to quiet my storm-tossed inner world with salvation that is NOW.
The hours dragged on, but at some point of in-and-out sleep and strange dreams, my mind focused on the Lutheran liturgy I memorized as a young adult, complete with its chant-like- tune. Interestingly, I didn’t begin to understand what I was singing at the time I learned it, and yet it came alive for me in my moment of despair:
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence,
And take not thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation,
And uphold me with thy free spirit.
Fortunately, those God-words did battle with the noise (an inner war) and I eventually was able to sleep. Upon waking (thank you, Lord, I could sleep in late by myself), they refused to leave me. I find myself living out the day with these words repeating themselves internally, almost like a recording on auto-play. They are restorative: beyond comforting.
I’d made note of the fact some time ago that this liturgical chant was taken from Psalm 51:10-12, and I looked it up again in the NIV:
Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from your presence of take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.
Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase via The Message is interesting:
God, make a fresh start in me, shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
Don’t throw me out with the trash, or fail to breathe holiness in me.
Bring me back from gray exile, and put a fresh wind in my sails!
I also checked out the Latin Vulgate Bible (thanks, John!), where it occurs as Psalm 50:12-14:
Create a clean heart in me, O God: and renew a right spirit within my bowels. Cast me not away from thy face; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation, and strengthen me with a perfect spirit.
The commonalities are obvious: pleas for God’s presence and Spirit and therefore re-creation/sustaining/upholding/deep renewal at the heart level and joy in His ongoing salvation. It is also interesting to note that David wrote this psalm after committing adultery with Bathsheba.
I’m grateful for even my limited/incomplete understanding of kairos, or God-time. as it intersects with chronos, or earth-time. I can see how God touched David to author this in a kairos moment. I can also see this liturgical “implant” years ago being a provision from God - one that came to mind in a specific moment when I desperately needed Him to quiet my storm-tossed inner world with salvation that is NOW.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Deluge and Deliverance
Last night I had one of those zombie-style, half-thought-half-dreams.
I was living alone confined to the house (some other house, not one we currently own). For whatever reason, I could never go outside. In this house the faucets dripped constantly, both in the bath and kitchen. Over a period of years the drips turned into dribbles, and over decades the dribbles became great gushing streams. At first, the constant flow seemed a minor annoyance and inconvenience. But as the volume of water increased, it eventually overwhelmed the drains until they could not keep up.
Water overflowed EVERYWHERE. It ran through the halls day and night, and covered every floor. It dripped from the ceilings, ran down the walls, and accumulated in the downstairs at levels of a foot or more.
The flow of water never let up, but, in fact, only continued to increase. I bailed with buckets and mopped and mopped until I was blue in the face, but couldn’t control the water levels and subsequent damage. The whole house smelled like mildew and rot, and many of my furnishings were destroyed and completely unusable. I waded all day in the water with cold feet and lay down on a soggy mattress every night. Because of my isolation, I was unable to clear out any of the damaged goods that continued to decay and make conditions close-to-intolerable. My possessions just sat there and deteriorated as I watched.
Every now and then well-wishers called on the phone or tapped on the window. “God’s strength is made perfect in weakness,” they’d say. Or, “God won’t tempt you beyond what you are able to bear.” Or, “Tribulation works patience, and patience, experience, and experience, hope. So be hopeful!”
Finally one day I lost it. The confinement, sickening stench, threat of ever-increasing amounts of rushing water, and chill of dampness to the depths of my soul – it all sent me to the only high ground I could access: the roof.
Hurrah! There I could finally breathe without fear of contamination, bask in sunlight, and feel the wind in my face. However, I realized I had absolutely no necessities or protection from the outdoor elements up there. How could I keep my balance with the steep pitch, let alone possibly LIVE on a rooftop?
I’d stood on the roof only a very few minutes when it mysteriously began to shudder beneath me. I lay down so as not to fall off, and the portion where I lay was let down, slowly, BACK INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE.
Down inside once again in the midst of the flowing water and general mayhem caused by water damage, I was shocked to be greeted, as in the story of Mark 2:1-12, by Jesus Himself. “Your sins are forgiven. Pick up this piece of roof (your mat) and be willing to live at home.”
_______________________________________________________________________________
My interpretation? The water is my tinnitus – a very private, chronic, sometimes-bone-chilling rush of inner noise that threatens to control much of my life. I conversely try to control it and/or escape, but can’t – it only escalates and becomes more insistent as time passes. Other people encourage me with correct and optimistic admonitions, and yet my flesh is weak. When I retreat and seek relief, I never win and end up stuck in the same spot…only in this case, I ended up in the presence of Jesus who promised to cleanse and empower me RIGHT THERE in the midst of my disabling circumstances.
Moral? This only reinforces what I’ve come to know in recent years. Jesus offers healing IN THE MIDST OF pain. Restoration is not somewhere else, or some other time, but in the present moment in the form of spiritual graces – something I cannot manufacture or fake.
I was living alone confined to the house (some other house, not one we currently own). For whatever reason, I could never go outside. In this house the faucets dripped constantly, both in the bath and kitchen. Over a period of years the drips turned into dribbles, and over decades the dribbles became great gushing streams. At first, the constant flow seemed a minor annoyance and inconvenience. But as the volume of water increased, it eventually overwhelmed the drains until they could not keep up.
Water overflowed EVERYWHERE. It ran through the halls day and night, and covered every floor. It dripped from the ceilings, ran down the walls, and accumulated in the downstairs at levels of a foot or more.
The flow of water never let up, but, in fact, only continued to increase. I bailed with buckets and mopped and mopped until I was blue in the face, but couldn’t control the water levels and subsequent damage. The whole house smelled like mildew and rot, and many of my furnishings were destroyed and completely unusable. I waded all day in the water with cold feet and lay down on a soggy mattress every night. Because of my isolation, I was unable to clear out any of the damaged goods that continued to decay and make conditions close-to-intolerable. My possessions just sat there and deteriorated as I watched.
Every now and then well-wishers called on the phone or tapped on the window. “God’s strength is made perfect in weakness,” they’d say. Or, “God won’t tempt you beyond what you are able to bear.” Or, “Tribulation works patience, and patience, experience, and experience, hope. So be hopeful!”
Finally one day I lost it. The confinement, sickening stench, threat of ever-increasing amounts of rushing water, and chill of dampness to the depths of my soul – it all sent me to the only high ground I could access: the roof.
Hurrah! There I could finally breathe without fear of contamination, bask in sunlight, and feel the wind in my face. However, I realized I had absolutely no necessities or protection from the outdoor elements up there. How could I keep my balance with the steep pitch, let alone possibly LIVE on a rooftop?
I’d stood on the roof only a very few minutes when it mysteriously began to shudder beneath me. I lay down so as not to fall off, and the portion where I lay was let down, slowly, BACK INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE.
Down inside once again in the midst of the flowing water and general mayhem caused by water damage, I was shocked to be greeted, as in the story of Mark 2:1-12, by Jesus Himself. “Your sins are forgiven. Pick up this piece of roof (your mat) and be willing to live at home.”
_______________________________________________________________________________
My interpretation? The water is my tinnitus – a very private, chronic, sometimes-bone-chilling rush of inner noise that threatens to control much of my life. I conversely try to control it and/or escape, but can’t – it only escalates and becomes more insistent as time passes. Other people encourage me with correct and optimistic admonitions, and yet my flesh is weak. When I retreat and seek relief, I never win and end up stuck in the same spot…only in this case, I ended up in the presence of Jesus who promised to cleanse and empower me RIGHT THERE in the midst of my disabling circumstances.
Moral? This only reinforces what I’ve come to know in recent years. Jesus offers healing IN THE MIDST OF pain. Restoration is not somewhere else, or some other time, but in the present moment in the form of spiritual graces – something I cannot manufacture or fake.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Surprise, Surprise, Surprise
It seems like I’m accumulating a nice pile of surprises, so decided to post a few here.
Surprise:
Fritz made it through his 4-hour seminar at Purdue yesterday without ANY of the old signs of heart distress. He experienced significant weariness, to be sure, but nothing obviously scary or threatening. The audience applauded him and gave him plenty of verbal recognition and appreciation. Evidence of God’s mercy showered upon HIM continues to encourage ME.
Surprise:
I actually FINISHED painting the dining and living rooms in Buck Creek. Yesterday I moved on into the area at the bottom of the stairs yesterday (closet door and short wall) and kitchen (trim only) without the mega-burnout I expected! Maybe tackling the walls of the whole house by myself is something that’s actually do-able. (GULP…maybe, just maybe, I’m not a total has-been).
Surprise:
The appraiser said our Buck Creek house is valued at $265,000 – a figure that confirms our original asking price of two years ago as not ridiculously high (or overtly greedy) after all.
Surprise:
After much haggling over some politically-correct-but-inapplicable-stipulations regarding flood plain status, we finally got our home equity loan and can make plans for new roofing, electrical service, windows, etc. for the Buck Creek house. We had to buy flood plain insurance even when our insurance agent verified we are NOT in a flood plain…just to satisfy the underwriters of the loan…but so be it. At least it came to a solvable conclusion and WE CAN PROCEED!
Surprise:
I found a kind note and paycheck waiting in the mail here in Michigan from the director of Miracle Camp, even though I told them not to compensate me for the two days I spent in the kitchen recently. Such gracious/generous people are inspiring.
Surprise:
Hallelujah Acres is offering 3-day Health Minister Training in off-site spots across the country (something brand new). A session will be held in Canton, Ohio in July. I’ve toyed with attending this training for years, but never pursued it since I didn’t want to deal with the long-distance travel (to Shelby, N. Carolina) by myself, and couldn’t justify the expense. Fritz - the eggs-sausage-toast-fried-food-dessert-man - has shown strong interest in attending the Ohio class with me this summer as a celebratory anniversary outing. Who would have thought?! I NEED a motivational jump-start as this winter was hard on my raw-food resolve and I’ve had a hard time recovering…so…hallelujah!
Surprise:
It’s a beautiful, warm, sunny day up here even though it’s rainy/cloudy/cold “back home” in Indiana. Sunshine on choppy water is great visual therapy; wind in the face sweeps away cobwebs. Now to take a walk and let all those watery smells seep inside (somehow they DO manage to get to heart/soul level) and do their rejuvenating thing.
Surprise:
Fritz made it through his 4-hour seminar at Purdue yesterday without ANY of the old signs of heart distress. He experienced significant weariness, to be sure, but nothing obviously scary or threatening. The audience applauded him and gave him plenty of verbal recognition and appreciation. Evidence of God’s mercy showered upon HIM continues to encourage ME.
Surprise:
I actually FINISHED painting the dining and living rooms in Buck Creek. Yesterday I moved on into the area at the bottom of the stairs yesterday (closet door and short wall) and kitchen (trim only) without the mega-burnout I expected! Maybe tackling the walls of the whole house by myself is something that’s actually do-able. (GULP…maybe, just maybe, I’m not a total has-been).
Surprise:
The appraiser said our Buck Creek house is valued at $265,000 – a figure that confirms our original asking price of two years ago as not ridiculously high (or overtly greedy) after all.
Surprise:
After much haggling over some politically-correct-but-inapplicable-stipulations regarding flood plain status, we finally got our home equity loan and can make plans for new roofing, electrical service, windows, etc. for the Buck Creek house. We had to buy flood plain insurance even when our insurance agent verified we are NOT in a flood plain…just to satisfy the underwriters of the loan…but so be it. At least it came to a solvable conclusion and WE CAN PROCEED!
Surprise:
I found a kind note and paycheck waiting in the mail here in Michigan from the director of Miracle Camp, even though I told them not to compensate me for the two days I spent in the kitchen recently. Such gracious/generous people are inspiring.
Surprise:
Hallelujah Acres is offering 3-day Health Minister Training in off-site spots across the country (something brand new). A session will be held in Canton, Ohio in July. I’ve toyed with attending this training for years, but never pursued it since I didn’t want to deal with the long-distance travel (to Shelby, N. Carolina) by myself, and couldn’t justify the expense. Fritz - the eggs-sausage-toast-fried-food-dessert-man - has shown strong interest in attending the Ohio class with me this summer as a celebratory anniversary outing. Who would have thought?! I NEED a motivational jump-start as this winter was hard on my raw-food resolve and I’ve had a hard time recovering…so…hallelujah!
Surprise:
It’s a beautiful, warm, sunny day up here even though it’s rainy/cloudy/cold “back home” in Indiana. Sunshine on choppy water is great visual therapy; wind in the face sweeps away cobwebs. Now to take a walk and let all those watery smells seep inside (somehow they DO manage to get to heart/soul level) and do their rejuvenating thing.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Barking Up the Wrong Tree
Today is the 158th day of Sound Therapy. That is a LOT of days (and hours, if you multiply that figure by approximately 3 hours for each day). I continue to not notice ANY obvious changes in tinnitus loudness or pitch. Am I barking up the wrong tree?
Speaking of which, I took a minute to look up that expression – barking up the wrong tree. Here’s what I found:
The allusion is to hunting dogs barking at the bottom of trees where they mistakenly think their quarry is hiding.
The earliest known printed citation is in James Kirke Paulding's Westward Ho!, 1832:
"Here he made a note in his book, and I begun to smoke him for one of those fellows that drive a sort of a trade of making books about old Kentuck and the western country: so I thought I'd set him barking up the wrong tree a little, and I told him some stories that were enough to set the Mississippi a-fire; but he put them all down in his book."
The phrase must have caught on in the USA quickly after Hall's book. It appeared in several American newspapers throughout the 1830s. For example, this piece from the Gettysburg newspaper The Adams Sentinel, March 1834:
"Gineral you are barkin' up the wrong tree this time, for I jest see that rackoon jump to the next tree, and afore this he is a mile off in the woods.”
Anyway, I don’t know if I’m barking up the wrong tree or not in this case (meaning Sound Therapy), but the real issue is one of hanging on to hope, expecting comfort in the midst of waiting, and not giving in to the paranoia the inner noise evokes. So, in the meantime, I’ll get on with the expected events of today…sling the paint brush for a while, clean the house and do laundry, pack up, and head to Michigan later in the day…and strive to keep a focus on a higher dimension, a greater purpose, a God who provides all I need.
Speaking of which, I took a minute to look up that expression – barking up the wrong tree. Here’s what I found:
The allusion is to hunting dogs barking at the bottom of trees where they mistakenly think their quarry is hiding.
The earliest known printed citation is in James Kirke Paulding's Westward Ho!, 1832:
"Here he made a note in his book, and I begun to smoke him for one of those fellows that drive a sort of a trade of making books about old Kentuck and the western country: so I thought I'd set him barking up the wrong tree a little, and I told him some stories that were enough to set the Mississippi a-fire; but he put them all down in his book."
The phrase must have caught on in the USA quickly after Hall's book. It appeared in several American newspapers throughout the 1830s. For example, this piece from the Gettysburg newspaper The Adams Sentinel, March 1834:
"Gineral you are barkin' up the wrong tree this time, for I jest see that rackoon jump to the next tree, and afore this he is a mile off in the woods.”
Anyway, I don’t know if I’m barking up the wrong tree or not in this case (meaning Sound Therapy), but the real issue is one of hanging on to hope, expecting comfort in the midst of waiting, and not giving in to the paranoia the inner noise evokes. So, in the meantime, I’ll get on with the expected events of today…sling the paint brush for a while, clean the house and do laundry, pack up, and head to Michigan later in the day…and strive to keep a focus on a higher dimension, a greater purpose, a God who provides all I need.
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