Ties that bind..

 I had a beautiful day yesterday.  I spent it with people that I barely know and people I have known for years.  We are a group of people with varied interests, talents, theologies, and economic statuses.  We have a tie that binds us.  That tie is our struggle to serve God the best way we can.  We help each other in that struggle.


There is a man in this group who has a servant's heart of gold.  Ed serves his church, his family, his friends, and rarely indicates that his own needs are of much concern.  He is always looking for someone to help.  His wife, who was not with us, is the same way.  They are a family of loving, caring, serving people.  I have known them for years, and I love them dearly, and admire them greatly.  There is a tie that binds us.


There was a blind woman with us.  She lives in government housing.  I do not think she is well educated.   Society would say she hasn't much to offer.   Society would be wrong.  Darlene has the most joyful spirit.  She never complains.  She is friendly, and speaks to everyone.  She rarely forgets a voice.  It is a pleasure to know her.  There is a tie that binds us.


And, then there is the precious one, who as we toured Oaklands Mansion, described each little detail to Darlene so she did not feel apart.  I haven't known Chris for long, but she has the unique gift of being able to relate to young marrieds, elderly widowed, and everyone in between.  She is not afraid to work.  In the short time I have known her, I have grown to love her.  There is a tie that binds us.


The two Phillips were there.  They live in the same high rise as Darlene.  They both use walkers.  They are new, or newly returned, to their faith.  They have grateful joyful hearts.  "God bless you," comes quickly to their lips.  Their countenances glow with love.  We are family.  There is a tie that binds us. 

My mom was there, but I'm saving a blog just for her in a couple of weeks.  Her birthday is coming up.  What a blessed day it was for me when Carol and Dennis came to Otter Creek.  Talk about someone who is willing to work, and she does it with a big smile on her face ~ every time.  We love to antique.  We love to have lunch together.  I love times I get to spend with her.  There is a tie that binds us.

As I told her yesterday, Betty is not a ray of sunshine, she is a bolt of sunlight.  She just spreads joy and humor everywhere she goes.  She is eager to participate and help.  She adores her children and grandchildren.  I suspect she is the kind of grandmother every child would love to have.  Whenever I mention to her daughter how much I enjoy Betty, Elisabeth always replies, "I know.  She's great.  I am blessed to have her."  We are all blessed.  There is a tie that binds us.

How can one person be your mentor and your peer?  That is what Gail is to me.  She has advised (only when asked) and helped me through the years.  She probably is not really even aware of her value to me.  She was the one who helped me see the humor when my son, God love his sweet soul, decided that his elementary school librarian needed to become aware of his displeasure with her.  Gail was the principal at the school.  He decided, quite cleverly according to her, to stealthily rearrange the books in the library.  I might not have appreciated his creativity had she not opened my eyes.  Gail is the one who most makes me feel that parenting decisions (or non-decisions) we have made might be somewhat admirable.  We have a tie that binds us.

Fletcher.  How can I describe Fletcher?  I know so many funny stories about him.  He seems to never get riled about anything.  I have never witnessed him angry or upset.  He gets Mr. Lincoln's sense of humor.  Not everyone does.   Years ago, some friends had an adult scavenger hunt.  I cannot even describe the work and brilliance that went into that party.  It could never be reproduced.  One item to be gotten was a sucker from a Shoney's restaurant.   The song at A-8 (whatever) on the jukebox at Boardwalk Cafe across the street was another item needed.  Fletcher's car dropped him off at Shoney's while they drove across the street to the Boardwalk.  The story goes, that Fletcher, hair standing on end, ran out of Shoney's brandishing his suckers, jumped in a car, yelled, "I got them, I got them," only to notice that he recognized no one in that car.  We have a tie that binds us.

Ah, and then there is Miz Bernie.  I love her.  I loved her husband, Buddy.  When our son was nearly inconsolable over the death of his dog, Mr. Buddy talked with him.  Buddy had just sadly had a dog put down, and so this lovely man, commiserated with our 8 year old son.  On our son's level. Talk about ties that bind.  Our son, when selling Boy Scout candy bars, went to Miz Bernie's house.  When she invited him in, he looked all around and in awe inquired, "is your house always this clean."  Yes, that is a testimony to my housekeeping skills.   We never missed stopping at their house at Halloween.  They decorated so lavishly.  We have a tie that binds us.

For some reason, my previously published "Ties that bind" left a whole paragraph out.  It left out Mr. Jim and Jayne.  It left out Kay and Mike.  Both these couples have lost 2 sons, and, yet, they continue on in faith and grace and dignity.  Whenever I ask Mr. Jim how he's doing, he always replies, "there's been no change."  He loves courting that curmudgeon demeanor, but he doesn't have me fooled.  He is just a big ol' sweetheart.  Celia.  Celia with the beautiful eyes and beatific smile.  She is always so complimentary and encouraging of others' accomplishments.  Ralph and Kay.  Again, I haven't known them long, but I love them.  They have great children.  Their children have great parents.  Martha and John and Fletcher's sister, Gail, I barely know.  I look forward to more opportunities to spend time with them.

So for today, I wish you ties that bind you to our Lord, our Father, and to those who struggle alongside you to serve well, and I wish you

blessings

Musings from a steroid-crazed mind

I cannot sleep.  The reason I cannot sleep is the steroids I am taking for the sinus that is impacted with infection.  They make me sweat.  They make me itch.  They make my face red.  I am quite alluring, and yet, Mr. Lincoln is still able to restrain himself.  He is a model of self-control.

Last night, as I lay not sleeping, my thoughts were bouncing around my perfect brain (I took a test...it is perfect...the doctor said so...so there, all you skeptics) like the ball in a pinball machine.  Many of those bings hit on memories of my father's family.  Perhaps, they were precipitated by the intention of blogging about my Aunt Frank at some point. When I wrote about my cousin, "Bennie," I was reminded by my friend, Nancy, that he was the self-proclaimed King of the Tookie People.  As I was not invited to his coronation, I had forgotten that fact about him.  I do not know where the Tookie People live, but I can only assume that several years ago they moved to Dover to be with their monarch. 

That memory led me to thoughts of "Bennie's" mother's funeral.  It was a graveside service at the National Cemetery in Madison.  There were only about 10 people there including the priest who was conducting the service.  My sister, with whom I should never attend somber occasions, and I were standing behind my cousin, Bennie, and Aunt Frank who were seated.  Aunt Frank took great pride in her appearance, and was in sensed when her hair began to turn white.  Her younger sister has beautiful white hair.  Aunt Frank often said that her sister should color her hair like she did.  Her hair was an interesting shade of mauve.   At the funeral as we stood behind her and Bennie my sister pointed out that they had identical bald spots on the backs of their heads.  We pondered if Bennie was a love-child of Aunt Frank's that we did not know about.  That started our giggling, and it continued as the priest called the deceased by her proper name, which my sister and I were fairly certain we had never known.  A breeze kicked up and blew the pall off the casket.  Giggles continued.  Seriously, we do not have even a modicum of decorum when it comes to solemn occasions.  As the service ended, a panel van drove up to the podium where the service was held.  We thought that odd.  It became more odd (and funnier) as men left the van, picked up the casket, threw it into the back with 1/3 of the casket hanging out, and then drove off.  I have heard of grave robbers, but this was ridiculous.  We learned the van belonged to the cemetery and they use that instead of a hearse to transport the body to the burial spot.  Hmmmmmm, interesting.

Aunt Frank always had her nails done.  Bright red was her favorite color.  When it was time for a manicure, she would let me peel the polish off her nails.  Thus was born the joy of covering my palms with Elmer's glue, letting it dry, and then peeling it off.  I always think of her when I do that.  Yes, I still do that from time to time.  It is very calming. 

She always had Chiclets in her purse and was very kind to share.  She always drove big cars.  When she was younger, she had a lead foot.  It runs in the family.  When she got older, she was sloooooooow moving.  As she aged, getting out of her car became more difficult.  When she went to the drugstore, which was on a very busy street, she would pull up onto the sidewalk at the front and sit on her horn until someone came out to help her.  She parked in her front yard about 6 inches from her front steps.  If she could have driven up on the porch, I am sure she would have.  Once my sister had a friend over who was sitting and looking out the picture window.  My sister was in the back of the house when her friend began to shriek that someone was about to hit the house with her car.  It was just Aunt Frank.

Aunt Frank married for the first time when she was 52 years old.  He did not survive long.  She loved a good funeral.  We used to say if she knew someone named Jones, and there was an obituary for someone named Jones, she would be at the funeral.  She never really had a job as far as I know, but she would have made an awesome professional mourner.  When she died, my sister and I went together to the visitation.  Aunt Frank's younger sister was standing by the open casket as we walked in.  We hugged her and told her how sorry we were.  This was her 7th sibling to bury.  She graciously accepted our sympathies and then said, "I think she looks lovely, don't you.  Frank would have loved brighter lipstick, but I thought this was more appropriate for the occasion."  Irreverence runs rampant in this family.

It is pretty much a miracle that I have any self-esteem at all being raised with the extended family that I have.  My uncle Doug, Daddy's older brother, had a daughter my age named Gail. She is the one who had the Christmas chicken named Shicky Shick.  He and his wife doted on her.  That's okay.  My dad doted on me too.  Once at another cousin's wedding, Gail came up to her mother (in front of me) and asked if I was a "chosen child."  She was adopted.  My Aunt Ruth replied, "no, Aunt Mary and Uncle Hot (my dad) just had to take what they got."  Wow! 

They used to always invite me to Gail's birthday parties.  They lived across town.  I usually got carsick riding there.  It just wasn't my favorite thing to do.  But, one year, I had the perfect gift, and so I was pretty pumped about going to the party.  It was a pirate ship that actually floated.  It had movable pirates and everything.  I wanted one so badly.  So, picture this...lots of little girls, none of whom I know besides my cousin, gathered around as Gail unwraps her present.  I have that little pitter patter as I wait enthusiastically for her to open this most wonderful gift.  She opens it, flings it across the room and yells, "give it to a boy."  That did not work out quite as I had hoped.  The next year, I took a dainty little bracelet. I vomited three times on the way there.  I assume it was part carsickness and part nerves.  After the gift opening, then everyone began to show off their gymnastic skills.  I had none.  It was great fun.  The next year, and every one after that I just happened to be otherwise engaged when that birthday rolled around. 

Another one of Dad's brothers had an accident sawing a limb off a tree.  He was in Vanderbilt Emergency.  Daddy called and asked if I could meet him there, as he had bummed a ride from a co-worker to get to the hospital.  It was pouring rain as I drove to meet him.  When I arrived, Gail's father was appalled that I had driven there in such weather.  In one sentence he was able to malign my dad's parenting, let me know that Gail was the pretty, smart one, but that I must be the sensible one to be able to successfully drive there.  Yep, every 16 year old girl wants to be the sensible one.  It must have been so, because earlier that year when my mother gave birth to my little sister, my dad and I were leaving church.  One of the Christian sisters standing in the parking lot asked my dad if the new baby was a girl or a boy.  He told her a girl.  She replied, "Oh, that's a pity.  You have such beautiful boys."  Hello, Sister, you may think I'm as ugly as a fence post, but I am not deaf.  It's a miracle I ever let my raggedy old sensible self be seen in public.

So, for today, I wish you a good night's rest, a disabled pinball machine, survivable walks down Memory Lane, and

blessings

The Diagnosis is in

Well, they did find a brain in my cranium during the tests I had run last week.  There have been occasions in the past few days when I wondered if it was so.  Mr. Lincoln has questioned it as well.  ("He who wishes" has just been renamed Mr. Lincoln.  You have to be a FB friend to understand why, so just trust me, it's very appropriate.  It also makes him laugh.  I love when he laughs!!) 

My doctor called this morning.  "Is this a bad time," he asks.  Certainly, it was not.  The next words out of his mouth were, "I have very good news for you."  I liked hearing that.  Turns out, in his words, I have a perfect brain.  Those who know me well can just stop laughing right now.  That is NOT nice.  "Well, except for one thing," he says.  He continues to tell me that I have an impacted mastoid sinusitis.  Okay, not so bad.  What do I do?  Take an antibiotic for 21 days and a steroid pack.  Yes!! I can do that.  I must admit that I was relieved.

I have a flair for internal drama.  I try to rarely, if ever, let it be seen, but the theatrics going on in my head are Oscar worthy.  Just Sunday, Mr. Lincoln pointed out someone to me who was with someone else who is having some serious personal issues.  He, unfortunately, used the word "too," and before we got 100 yards, I had the second person in more serious personal angst than the first.  Mr. Lincoln was bumfuzzled.  "Where did that come from," he asked.  I explained that he used the word "too" which indicated that fellow number 2 was having the same problem as fellow number 1.  As in, too, also, as well as, likewise, in addition to etc....  He still didn't get my explanation.

So, while I did not fret awaiting my test results, I did ponder various scenarios where I starred as the tragic figure who died too young.   It was several years ago that I said something to my friend, Betsy, about dying young and she replied, "it's too late for that!"  I ask, "was that nice?" 

I wondered if Mr. Lincoln would soon receive his "dating money."  This past summer, we began to discuss our life insurance.  He has the same amount on me that I have on him.  I consider that a seriously flawed plan.  I called him and asked why in the world he had so much life insurance on me.  I explained that I am just not that financially valuable to him.  He replied that if I died, he would need some dating money.  Well, that certainly made me feel better.

I contemplated video taping myself talking to my unborn grandchild who I will call Mamie Bob until he or she arrives.  I wanted Mamie Bob to know how much I would have loved him or her, and all the fun things we were going to do together.  I'm telling you, people, it is melodrama all the way in my head.

So, it seems that I will not expire from blocked arteries or a brain tumor...at least not this week.  I doubt a sinus infection will do me in either.  I will admit that I am pleased to know that it is not a case of hypochondria.  I was beginning to wonder.  I might get hit by a bus or a meteorite, or choke on a malted milk ball, or some other bizarre happenstance, but for right now, my mind is relieved.  I will take my medicines as prescribed.  I will thank God for good test results.  I will ponder how grateful I am for my health.  I will give more thought to those whose health is fragile.  I will not take one day or one moment for granted...until I forget the mind-drama of this week, and then once again take my many blessings for granted.  Oh, why do I do that? 

So, for today, I wish you good health, a grateful heart, and

blessings   

Blessed

There is a song we used to sing in girl scouts..."make new friends, but keep the old...one is silver and the other gold."

I have had a golden afternoon.  And, it was, of all places, at a baby shower.  Now, I'm not a lover of showers of any kind.  Well, that's not true.  I love a good rain shower.  I love a good hot shower. I don't particularly love Sunday afternoon gift-giving showers.  But, every now and then, along comes a shower that I would not miss.  One came along today.

So many special friends were there.  Those old, golden ones that cannot be replaced.  The shower was for the daughter of a friend.  I have known this expectant mom most of her life.  I have watched her grow into a creative, beautiful, funny, brilliant, generous, kind, gracious, and loving daughter, wife, sister, aunt, and friend.   I feel certain she will display those same traits to her baby boy when he arrives.  He is one lucky little guy to be blessed by this family.

There were others there.  Two of the hostesses are my peers whose daughters also hosted.  I realize, I consider those younger girls my friends too.  No, not just my friends, but my sisters.  It is fun to see characteristics of their mothers in them.  It is like turning back time.

This shower was a true Southern ladies' delight.  Not a piece of plastic in sight.  China dishes, linen napkins, silver and fresh flowers all present because the hostesses were pleased and honored to provide for their guests.  The home is lovely; a new home that looks old.  Much of it had been built with salvaged materials from other homes. Every detail was displayed with great care. It was warm and welcoming, just like the lovely woman who lives there.

The food...oh, the food.  I ate too much, but who can pass up homemade pound cake with a perfect crunchy top, and mushroom tarts, and lemon squares and fruit and brie and delicious tiny crackers?  Not me.  The punch was even delicious. I felt loved just by being there.  I know the other guests did as well.

Oh, those other guests.  I love those women.  My walking buddies who I do not see nearly enough when summer has passed.  Young mothers who brought their little girls to the ladies' party.  Those precious little ones in their Sunday dresses will be grown before we turn around.  I admire the grandmother-to-be more than I can say.  She has a heart of tenderness and compassion.  Those are hallmarks of the entire family.

I rode home with another friend who, in a former life, I talked to almost every day.  We do not spend time together as we once did, but those spaces drop away when we do get the opportunity to visit.  Sadly, in that short drive we learned that we have a doctor in common.  When did life change from obstetricians to cardiologists?  I do not know.  But, it is fine because we all have each other.  We have history together.   We are walking through our "what now" years together.

I have had a golden afternoon of blessing.  I love my new friends.  They are like precious silver.  But, those old friendships gleam like burnished gold.

So, for today, I wish you shiny new friendships and old friendship that have beautifully aged patinas and I wish you

blessings

Hypochondria is hard work...

Today was a trying day.  I have been having these near-fainting spells for a couple months.  For a while I thought it was the heat.  Then I thought my blood pressure was dropping rapidly.  It's awkward when one is having a conversation and starts to grey out.  So, I went to the doctor.  Took some meds.  Thought I was better.  Started near-fainting again.  Went back to the doctor.  He sent me to a cardiologist.  He also scheduled an MRI on my head and an MRA on my carotid arteries. 

I had my day nicely planned.  Echo cardiogram at 8:00, MRI and MRA at 9:30.  Lunch with a friend at 11:30 or so. Best laid plans and all that stuff.  The orders had not been given to the echo imaging center.  I waited an hour with no test because I had to leave in order not to be late for my 9:30 test, which, as would happen, did not get started until around 10:30.  They did give me a $5 BP gas card for my trouble.  The 30 minute MRI lasted approximately an hour.  My head was in a cage, my arms pinned down, and my head wedged between two boards.  They were soft boards, but boards nonetheless.  You can't really sleep during an MRI because they are so loud.  I prayed...a lot.  I thanked God for all my blessings, prayed for my children, prayed for my friends, prayed for "he who wishes," prayed for my church, prayed for my mother, prayed for the grass and the trees and anything else I could think of.  I was like the 4 year old who prays for his great grandmother or his dog who has been dead for 4 years.  Anything to keep my mind off that cage over my face, my arms pinned down, and those blasted boards.  Whew I made it through. 

I met a woman in the waiting room who had on Family Guy flannel pajama bottoms.  She has 3 children ages 17, 20 and 23.  She is a single mom, and lost her waitress job 6 weeks ago.  She has gained 4 pounds since then.  She takes medicine for high blood pressure (her cholesterol is fine), a diuretic (she hasn't been taking it correctly), pain meds for her back and carpal tunnel, a muscle relaxer, and psychiatric meds.  She liked to talk.  I learned a lot about her.  She kept me entertained while I waited.  She helped me realize how thankful I should be for my health.  She was 18 years younger than I, and her health was so very fragile.  I also met a gentleman in the first waiting room who is a huge Republican, blames Obama (tongue in cheek, I think) for his quadruple bypass, and who still works as an accountant at a construction company.  He liked to talk. I learned a lot about him.  They learned nothing about me.  That's okay.  It would not have changed their lives it they had.

I had lunch by myself at Picnic.  I had to cancel lunch with my good buddy, Marilyn a.k.a. Tom, which had been planned for several weeks.  This was the second time I had to cancel.  I don't like doing that.  I really don't like eating in a restaurant by myself either.  Lunch was not the stimulating, laughter-filled occasion I was expecting when I got up this morning.

At 1:30, I am back at the echo imaging center.  No one else is in the waiting room.  I sit quietly until they call me back.  A lovely nurse does the echo and then informs me that the cardiologist wishes to see me when it is over.  She walks me to his office where I wait for an hour and 15 minutes to see him.  I am in an examining room with one Martha Stewart magazine which I read about 3 times.  I got a couple good ideas for birthday cards to send to sweet Jenny in Minnesota, but I was growing very weary of waiting.  Finally, he comes in and tells me I have the heart of a 20 year old.  Great news!!  Then he says I better hope they don't find anything in the MRI or MRA because they are looking for really bad stuff in those tests.  Great! 

So, as I go to bed tonight, I pray that they did find some brain matter in my cranium, but nothing that does not belong there.  I also pray that I have carotid arteries like a 20 year old.  I call today "therapeutic testing."  Unless I think I am dying in the next hour or so, I am going to avoid the doctor.  So, for today, I wish you a heart of a 20 year old, and

blessings

Really? I Mean, Really?

This week, I have been witness to a series of FB posts.  If they had not been so pitiful, they would have been quite funny. 

Here's the background.  A gentleman posted on a neighborhood FB page that he was looking for memorabilia from the neighborhood as well as from the high school in the area.  He was willing to pay for it.  A woman, a graduate of the school, posted that she had gotten some trophies, about 20 years ago, from the school before it was torn down, and the gentleman was welcome to them.  It was unclear as to whether she was selling them or giving them to him. 

Even though the school has been torn down, the gym is still standing, and is being beautifully renovated. There are those who feel that the trophies would be more appropriately placed in the gym when the renovations are completed, rather than in the gentleman's private collection. 

And, the firestorm began.  Accusations began to fly.  The woman was accused of stealing the trophies.  Never mind, that when she went back for a sentimental walk through her Alma mater before it was torn down, the POLICE said she could have the trophies.  It seems that she saved them from being left behind in the rubble.  That explanation was insufficient for some.  The question came up as to whether anyone had considered pressing charges against the woman for theft and the gentleman for being an accessory after the fact.  Really?    I mean something should be done about this threat to society. They have developed a conspiracy that rivals "who shot JFK."

 I expect to see her on America's Most Wanted.  What possible motivation could she have had twenty years ago when she, with permission, took the trophies and stored them in her home somewhere?  Of course, she must have anticipated there would be a big demand for them, and she would make a financial killing.  Maybe, they were her retirement plan!  Do you think?  Maybe, just maybe she did not want them to be destroyed. 

And the gentleman....what a duplicitous soul he is!  Everyone knows that FB is the best place to go to get "hot" trophies.  I can just picture some hidden room in his home where he stores his black market trophies, plays an LP of his high school band's half-time performance, rubs his greedy hands together as he diabolically laughs at all those suckers who missed out.  Could it be more absurd?  Okay, yeah, probably it could be.

As one would hope, the firestorm has died down.  None of the accusers have apologized, but they have admitted that the lady in question is lovely, and now that they know her maiden name, they remember her fondly from the old days.  The gentleman is going to restore the trophies at his own expense, place them in the gym in honor of his grandfather ~ wicked man ~ which seems satisfactory to his detractors.

The only concession that I saw on FB was someone saying that they were glad that he decided to do the "right thing."  Sheesh!!

Why did this become such a mess?  Why in the world did people draw such negative conclusions about these two  people and their motivation?  I have to admit, it makes me wonder about the character and ethics of the accusers.  If it had not been so pitiful, it might have been funny.

blessings

Selfless Faith

"I see a generation, rising up to take its place, with selfless faith."  I witnessed the words to this song, in the flesh, this past weekend.

It is a privilege to know a group of people who manage a charity that is about as near perfection as can be seen on this earth. They are a rising generation. The Living Water Project was begun eleven years ago by a young man who had to return to the United States from mission work in Germany to receive treatment for a rare form of cancer.   He would not be satisfied with focusing on his own health.  As the Samaritan, who could not deny the compulsion in his gut to tend to the man in the ditch, so Shanon could not deny the drive deep within him to help other people.  He had a gift for helping others catch this dream.  As happens with those who really make a difference in this world, the dream did not die when Shanon moved on, at the age of 27, to the next part of his journey through eternity.  It was a devastating loss to his parents, to his friends, to all who knew and loved him, but his death did not devastate his dream.  He left a legacy.

This rising generation picked up the torch.  They know that Jesus is the Living Water we all need.  They also know that words of this Jesus are simply meaningless platitudes if not accompanied with true life-giving service.  It is hard to see or love a Jesus if his followers only offer words.  When children are dying from cholera because of a lack of clean fresh water, and many followers of Jesus waste water to keep their grass from dying, He must seem a capricious god.  But, praise God, we have a rising generation of selfless faith.

This weekend, Living Water had its 11th annual yard sale.  It is brilliant.  People are able to clean out closets, and in turn, those who are less affluent find wonderful buys on items they need, all the while making it possible to build clean water wells for the even less affluent.  Enough money was raised this past weekend to build two wells in Haiti.   Every single penny raised goes to the building of wells.  This rising generation pays its own way to the mission fields to oversee the building of these wells.  They do not misuse the funds with which they have been trusted.

We talk about the trickle down effect of the economy.  Living Water has a trickle up effect.  When villages have clean water wells, women don't have to spend their days tending to dying children and walking miles and miles just to get a jug of fresh water.  They can go to school themselves.  They can work at jobs.  Their lives are changed.  Can you imagine how many lives have been changed for the better by the 39 wells built in 12 countries by Living Water?   

Not only those who end up with clean closets, or those who acquire gently used needed items, or those who receive life-giving water benefit from this charity.  Many members of this rising generation do not say, "look what YOU have done to cause harm, or look what YOU have not done to help someone," but rather they ask, "what can I do to bring about real change in this world."  It is selfless faith.  It is not about them.  They do not live in anger.  Oh, they have righteous indignation over the ills of this world, but instead of griping and complaining, they get to work.  They do something.  And, their lives are transformed.  I see a peace and joy in the part of this rising generation who embrace a life bigger than themselves that I do not see in those who don't.  Those who make themselves part of a community find true meaning.  For, as gifted and determined as Shanon was, Living Water would have died with him had he not lived in community. 

So, thank you, Jon, Linda, Jennifer, and all the rest of this rising generation.  Your selfless faith is an inspiration. 

For today, I wish you community with this rising generation, selfless faith, and

blessings

The Bunkers, the Barones, and the Halperts

This week, I was in a meeting where a comment was made about the ridiculous way television portrays men in our society.  Truly, if you look at TV advertisements, the men are either all idiots, liars, or pathetically inept.  For years that has bothered me.   That got me to thinking about some TV couples.

There are some of you out there, bless your hearts, who are married to an Archie Bunker.  You know the type.  He sits in his personal chair, chugs beer, watches TV, and calls you to bring him something from the kitchen every time you get up.  I have no doubt that Archie loved Edith.  He just did not finesse if very well.  But, I don't think there could have been an Archie without an Edith.  He called her a dingbat, so, often she acted like one.   Surely, she preferred a different, more loving nickname. I do not recall one time in the show when she asked him to not call her that. She ran around waiting on him as if he were her child.  I doubt he even knew how to make a sandwich for himself.  One would wish that he had risen to the occasion and helped her out, but she did not expect it, did not request it, and, consequently, did not receive it.  I guess it is true.....we teach people how to treat us.   Please, I know it was a situation comedy, and heaven knows, I have laughed out loud on many occasions at both of them.  In fact, Archie's piercing blue eyes and facial expressions remind me a lot of my own dad, who would never have dreamed of calling my mother a dingbat.  He could be not be certain what the repercussion of that would have been, but he could have been certain there would be repercussions, and rightfully so.

Which leads me to the Barones.  Some of you are married to a Debra Barone, bless your hearts.  Again, this is a sit-com that I watch and often laugh out loud, but I really just do not like Debra much.  She is one of the most contentious, micro-managing, shrews to ever be on TV.  I mean, yes, Ray is a doofus a lot of the time. Often, the theme of an episode centers around Raymond never helping Debra with the house or the children.  Can you blame him?  I am certain he has never done anything to please her, so why keep trying.  Poor guy.  He spends half his life trying to keep Debra from finding out about some mistake he has made.  C.S. Lewis has a statement in the chapter on marriage in Mere Christianity that goes something like this:  "women who control their husbands don't like themselves and they don't much like the men they control."  Debra and Ray Barone seem the perfect example of that.  If you watch the show closely, you will see that Debra really doesn't like herself much.  And, if she likes Raymond, well, I would hate to see how she would treat someone she didn't like.  But, there could be no Debra without a Ray.  As a friend said Sunday when we were having a discussion of similar issues, "if these men (meaning the ones being run over by their wives) would just grow some
b-b-b guts, relationships would be a lot better."  We were at church so she chose the more ladylike term of "guts," but we all know what she meant.  Raymond needs to heed the lesson.

Then, there are the Halperts.  I love the Halperts....Jim and Pam.  I know, I know, it's a sit-com, but I don't care.  I love the Halperts.  They just have a totally different vibe from the other 2 couples.  They have wonderful senses of humor and see the funny parts of life.  They support each other.  Even when they might not totally agree, in the public eye, they support each other.  Then, together they discuss the issue.  One does not wonder if Jim loves Pam.  It shows all over his face.  He feels really lucky to have her.  And, she feels the same about him.  Jim changes CeCe's diapers, and Pam doesn't micro-manage the whole procedure.  There just seems to be a lovely mutual love and respect with Jim and Pam.

I do not want to be Debra Barone.  I do not want to be married to Raymond, which I am not, except maybe when it comes to home repairs (only kidding "he who wishes").  I do not want to be married to Archie Bunker (which I am not and have never been), but I do not want to be an Edith either.  I want to be like Pam and Jim.  I suspect Debra sort of dreads Ray coming home, unless she wants to berate him for something.  I suspect Raymond dreads going home.  I suspect Edith dreaded when 5:00 rolled around and it was time for Archie to come home from work.  The peace and quiet of her day was about to be shattered.  I guess Archie was ready to get home so he could be waited on.  Even though Pam and Jim work together, I suspect they are so happy to be at home together, in a place unfettered by the Michael Scotts and Dwight Schrutes of their workday.  Instead of chaos, together they find and create peace.  When I grow up, I want to be just like the Halperts.

So, for today, I wish you a Jim and Pam sort of happy relationship, and I wish you

blessings

As the Mountains

"As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people both now and forevermore." Psalm 125:2

I met with friends yesterday.  They are living in Friday.  Because of fatigue, stress, and anxiety, they cannot remember the days before Friday.  Because of fatigue, stress, and anxiety, they cannot imagine Sunday.

I have been there. Some years ago, over about a 3 year span, our family experienced, death, illness, job loss, hospitalization, separation, and national tragedy....not just national tragedy, but world tragedy.  Because of fatigue, stress, and anxiety, I lived in Friday with no imagination of what Sunday would be.

My Bible is falling apart.  People suggest that I need a new one.  But, this Bible has scriptures marked with dates:  Psalm 94:18 & 19 (9/1998), Psalm 38 21 & 22 (9/1998), Psalm 62:8 (4/2000), Psalm 91:7 (date of depostions in lawsuit brought against us).

It has Psalms 70 and 77 marked because these were the numbers my son wore on his football jersey in high school. 

Written on the blank page behind the maps, underlined and starred ~ Romans 15:13, 2 Timothy 1:7, Proverbs 16:3, Jude 24 & 25. 

These and other reminders are how I got from Friday to Sunday then.  They are how I get from Friday to Sunday still. 

And, so for today, if you are living in Friday, I wish you hope for Sunday.  I wish you friends like Aaron and Hur, who held up the hands of Moses to win the fight, standing ready, and I wish you

blessings 

Ten Years Ago

The question has made the rounds on Facebook.  It is on the news and in the paper.  It is the question that future elementary school students will ask their parents in preparation for a history report.  Everyone who is asked will know the answer.  Where were you ten years ago today?

I was at home, dressing for a funeral.  A cousin of "he who wishes" had moved on to the next phase of his journey through eternity, and it was right and proper for us to remember him.  The national tragedy on every one's mind would not keep us from honoring this fine man.  I do not know what his religious views were, but I knew his morals and ethics.  He was married to one woman.  He was the father to two fine men.  He was the grandfather to several...I do not know how many.  He farmed, he hunted.  He was a respected member of his small community. He was the very definition of "salt of the earth." He had that slow, soft drawl that resides in lifetime southerners of his generation.  He was kind to my son, and if I could have loved him for only one reason, that would have been enough.  So, we honored Grey.  We offered our condolences to his wife, Eloise.  We appreciated all those who pulled over to the side of the road in respect for a man they never met as we made our way from funeral home to cemetery.  It was calm, respectful, and dignified.  It was in spirit, a million miles from the chaos going on in other parts of our country.  I am grateful to have known him.  He was an American hero.

I do not really remember what I did in the balance of that afternoon following the funeral.  I assume that I watched television in shock and horror like the majority of people were doing.  I do remember  going to church that evening.  It was the only place I wanted to be.  My children were both living in Georgia.  I prayed that someone was holding them close.  I went to my OC family.  The service that night was one of disbelief, grief, and petitions for comfort and miraculous recoveries. 

And, then we praised God.  We did not praise Him for planes that brought down the twin towers.  We did not praise Him for a plane crashing in a field in Pennsylvania.  We did not praise Him for scenes of a smoldering Pentagon.  How could we sing praises for those events?  We could not.  But, we praised Him, for we believed that He would turn our mourning into dancing, somehow, some way that we could not even fathom.  We had faith that even in the midst of such pain and human wreckage, He would work, and His purposes would be served. 

Ten years later, I still have that faith.  I know there are those still mourning.  Our whole country continues to feel the pain of that day.  Many have died in the past ten years.  They have died in both cowardly and brave ways.  They have been killed.  They have killed. Most deaths that have occurred in the past ten years had no connection to 9/11.  The families have mourned their loss.  My family has mourned its losses in these years as well.  And, still we praise Him ~ this God of the universe ~ this God in whose image we are all made ~ this God who is mindful of each one~ this God who attends to our needs ~ still we praise Him.

So for today, in the midst of your memories, I wish you a spirit of praise for the Father who will set all things right, and

blessings

Classes I Have Taken

In an email exchange, a friend jokingly said that he was going to take an Evelyn Wood Speed Reading course.  I informed him that I had taken one.  I learned to focus my eyes on the middle of the page, pick up about 4 words, and remember very little.  It is great for reading mediocre novels.  But, our correspondence got me to thinking about classes I have taken.

I took a summer sewing class when I was about 12 which resulted in a burgundy and green plaid skirt and green shirt that I wore to my first day in 7th grade....along with the bobby socks I spoke of in an earlier post.  This was a foreshadowing of what 7th grade would bring, but I was be-bopping along in my cloud of vagueness and did not pick up on the signs.  It was a rough year.

I have taken basket weaving (I have 1 basket), calligraphy (hand-writing unimproved), hand-made paper crafts (a red and green paper bowl I put out at Christmas and a distorted reindeer ornament).  I have taken art workshops and drawing classes.  I took a flower-arranging class, entered a competition, and won the tri-color.  I was in 4th grade, and my mother made me do a 3-bears arrangement by telling me it was "required." The 3 bears was the hardest form we were taught.  I won because no one else's mother cared enough to manipulate their child into doing that particular arrangement.  She was president of her garden club.

I took a real estate course, passed my real estate exam, and never sold or even showed a house. 

Like most girls in Nashville, I took a White Gloves and Party Manners class. I believe my post on embarrassing moments speaks for how wonderfully I excelled.  I took Social Dance in a class with a male to female ratio of 1:8.  The girls all prayed that they would not draw one of the boys with which to dance.  They stepped all over our feet.  But, always dancing with girls resulted in a social dancer who has to lead.  "He who wishes" is not impressed with my leadership skills on those rare occasions when dancing is part of our social scene. 

I took a woodworking class when I was pregnant with my daughter.  That resulted in a set of wooden blocks (blocks are possibly the easiest project possible for a woodworker) for my son, and several wooden, hand-painted (a return on those art classes) Christmas ornaments.  I did learn how to use a band saw, lathe, and belt sander.  I, however, have very little opportunity to display my vast knowledge on these tools.

I took a glass-blowing class in Galveston, TX with my son.  We made paper weights (one can never have enough hand-blown paper weights) and marbles (ditto on the need for marbles).  My son even made a vase, but I did not advance that far.  I blew a little too hard into the pipe and mine exploded.  The best return on that class was the time spent with my son...oh, and the tropical storm that blew in. That was my first time to see rain literally blowing horizontally. 

I took yoga once.  The gentleman next to me blew an air biscuit (thanks to my brother-in-law for that descriptive phrase) with every new pose.  I found that extremely unpleasant and thus I never returned.  Like most women my age, I have taken aerobics classes.  One time two friends and I went to a local church for class.  We arrived, 2 of us in our husbands' shorts and t-shirts, to find a class of tiny, buff creatures in spandex, leg warmers, and fancy headbands. Their enthusiasm was high ~ ours, not so much.  We suffered through class doing an assortment of "dance" moves accompanied by yelps of enthusiasm with each new move.  We even did a sort of country western move that pantomimed the swinging of a lasso while doing a fancy little side step.  So cute.  Toward the end of this endless class, the bouncy, enthusiastic teacher did her lasso move (or so we thought) one more time.  My friend, Marlene, and I followed suit.  There we were just side stepping and swinging that imaginary lasso with great enthusiasm, for we knew this was our last move before we could go home.  Sadly, we had not successfully interpreted the instruction which was actually an indication that we were to run a couple  laps to "cool down."  Marlene and I were laughing so hard that laps were not going to happen, but yee haw, we could swing a mean lasso.  We never returned.  I took a step aerobics class with my daughter once, and fell right off that step.  I never returned.

I have taken poetry classes ~ result ~ 5 love sonnets for "he who wishes," one of which rhymes the words liquors and knickers.  I keep waiting for the call when I am asked to serve as Tennessee's Poet Laureate.  I have taken numerous history and literature courses.  I even took Literature of the Civil War. 

Recently, I took classes in Conflict Management, Negotiation, and Mediation.  I learned a lot about myself and about how to deal with others.  I use a lot of what I learned in volunteer mediations.  What else I will do with that training remains to be seen. 

My mother has a motto.  I think Louis L'Amour has a similar quote ~ "Everything you learn is yours to keep."  Mom drilled it in my head, so I am trying to be a "lifelong learner."  I may not use everything I learn, but I sure am having fun in the pursuit.

So, for today, I wish you a wonderful and worthwhile learning experience, and

blessings

God's Eyes

There is a song by, I think, Montgomery - Gentry with the lines, "back when I knew it all."  At age 59 I know so much less than I did at 29...so much less.  When I was younger, I was pretty sure I had, if not all, at least a lot of answers, which, frankly is quite ludicrous because I rarely asked questions.  James Thurber said, "it is better to have some of the questions than all of the answers."  I rarely asked "why" questions.  I asked "how" a lot, but rarely why.  I must have been a breeze to raise.

I praise God for my parents who gave me a more balanced view of life when the resident preacher at our church railed against mixed bathing, which is nothing like it sounds.  When I told my mother that I could not go to the Y to swim because Brother So and So said that I would go to hell, she informed me that I most definitely would NOT go to hell, and that she had paid the Y dues and I was going swimming.  I never asked why to either argument.  Imagine my confusion when I was told not to go to school dances because it could end in pregnancy.  I did not ask why.  I had friends whose parents would not allow them to listen to rock and roll in town, but when on vacation they could because no one knew they were Christians there.  I did not ask why.  When it was inferred and sometimes spoken outright that our certain persuasion (don't say denomination) of Protestantism was the only one getting anybody into heaven, I never asked why. 

I believe with all my heart that no harm was intended by those who professed these "truths."  They were trying desperately to help us tow the line, and if the threat of hell would accomplish that, then so be it.  They wanted, with all their hearts, to help us live good lives.  They wanted us to avoid the pitfalls of lust, drunkenness, unclean language, and being poor examples to others.  They loved us.  They meant well.  I do not fault them, but shame on me for not asking some why questions.

I raised children who constantly asked why questions.  As adults, they still do.  Okay, I'm their mom.  Maybe I am biased, but they are two of the most intelligent, thought provoking young people I know.  I have learned so much more from them than they could ever learn from me, and one thing they have taught me is that I can ask why.  No, not that I can ask why, but rather, I should ask why.  It still doesn't come easily to me, but I am working on it.  Thank you, my precious children.

Wednesday night I attended a Bible study.  This is the first time I have been to a class at church on Wednesday night in years.  My moratorium on Wednesday nights started when I heard the punchline to an old joke, "Wednesdays don't count," and continued when I discovered that Wednesdays were the only evening I had the house to myself.  Funny how good habits are so easy to break, and bad ones so difficult.  But, that is a topic for another day.

I don't know the official title of the class, I just know the goal is for us to learn to look at the world with God's eyes.  That is quite a bit different from looking at the world with my eyes, and then convincing myself that God sees it the same way.  It is obvious that I am going to be very uncomfortable in this class.  I am pretty sure that I am going to have to revisit many issues that previously I thought were settled.  I believe that I am going to have a love/hate relationship with this class.  I am fairly certain that I am going to have to visit why questions I never asked before.

We had to answer a questionnaire.  There were eleven questions.  I don't remember them all, but one asked how many people I know who are Muslim, Jewish, Baha'i, Buddhist, or Atheist.  Let me just say, my answer for all demographics totaled approximately 3.  I don't even know what Baha'i is.  Another question made the inquiry as to whether I noticed people of Middle Eastern descent prior to 9/11/01.  My answer was no.  Then, I had to admit that I do feel uncomfortable on an airplane near people of other ethnicities.  I am not proud of that. 

My not asking why created in me an unrefined, but definitely present, viewpoint that God is for white, middle class, protestant (preferably CofC) Americans.  Boy, the confessions are pouring out, but I never even asked why until my son said, "Mom, don't you know that if you had been raised a Muslim, you would be a Muslim?"  Let me repeat, I am not proud if this, but that was really the first time I had ever seriously considered why I am a Christian.  I am a Christian because I was raised a Christian, and I never asked why.   Now, that is not the only reason I am a Christian.  Every fiber in my body believes the Jesus story.  I cannot imagine believing anything else. It is just in me.  But, I am having to ask why about a lot of other parts. 

I do not want to ask why.  God has other plans for me.  He brought into my life Ken and Marshall and MP and Josh and Lee and Preston and Sandra and, above all,  Jesus to help me see how much I have yet to learn and that it is okay to ask why.

So, at age 59, I am more confused than at age 29.  But, I am free. I am free to ask why.  I am free from having to have all the answers.  I am free to not have to figure out who is out and who is in.  That is not my bailiwick.  I am free to love a God who is not capricious, who is love, and who is in charge.  I don't need to know how, and I know why...because he loves each and every one of us whether we are Protestant, Jewish, Buddhist
Baha'i (I don't know what it is now, but I'm sure there will be a Wednesday night when I find out), or Atheist.  And, if I am going to look at the world with God's eyes, I will show my love as well.  I won't be able to do anything else.

So, for today, I wish you why questions, few answers, love, and

blessings

Mercies

Today, I received a phone message.  I will not share its content nor who it was from.  I fear by giving the details its impact might be diminished.  It was fewer than 20 words.  It was heartfelt.  I know it was heartfelt because it came from someone who lives with neither dissimulation nor artifice.  It made my day.  "Morning by morning, new mercies I see."  That message was merciful, and a reminder that great is God's faithfulness.

So, today, I wish you mercies from the Father, the awareness to notice them, and

blessings 

Confetti Promises

It is not fall yet, but the promise of fall is in the air.  Two days of pouring rain have caused leaves to tumble to the ground.  As I walked through Radnor this morning, I felt like the grand marshal in a ticker tape parade.  I wonder if my fellow walkers found it curious that I was waving and blowing kisses.  Some days I have a most robust imagination.

This is my favorite time of year.  It conjures up back-to-school clothes, new paper and pencils, 3-ring binders with the spines still intact, Elmer's glue before dried glue has clogged the opening, a brand new box of crayons...nothing smells better than that.

It makes me think of high school football games.  When the Isaac Litton High School Marching 100+ raised their instruments and played Malaguena we all knew another fall season had begun.  Our Friday night warriors would take to the field, and win or lose, we Litton Lions could not have been more proud.

Years later, I watched my own son play football.  His team won....a lot. I cheered him on, many times more loudly than he would have wished.  I think of dinners with other players' parents at small restaurants somewhere in West Tennessee, and the comraderie we had as parents of those boys we loved (and love) so dearly.  I think of silent prayers offered when one of our boys was slow in getting up after a play.  I think of one mom and me bursting into tears when her son intercepted a pass right in front of us.  Why did it matter so?  I don't know, but it did, and it is fresh in my mind when the weather turns so wonderfully.

This promise of fall makes me think of Halloweens past.  I love Halloween.  No store-bought costumes for my kids.  At age 2, my son went to nursery school dressed like a clown.  He actually wore his dad's size 13 high top Chuckies...all day.  Yet another confirmation that he was a kid after my own heart.  We had Raggedy Ann, Dorothy, witches and ghosts.  The year my son was the queen was most entertaining.  The year my children dressed as headless people was awesome fun.  I love warm apple cider and ginger snaps. My dad carved great jack-o-lanterns.  I loved it when he gave them ears. 

We have friends who owned a house in Gatlinburg.  When the weather turns like this, I think of wonderful weekends at that house with them.  We took beautiful hikes, ate well, listened to peaceful music, read, and had many grand adventures.  When they sold the house, "he who wishes" and I dressed in our hiking clothes, took a picture, and sent it to them with the caption "all dressed up with no place to go."  I miss those times, but I remember them with gratitude.  My friend always says that the third phase of any experience is the memory, which always lasts longer than the actual experience or its anticipation. 

My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.  The weather yesterday felt like November.  Thanksgiving is that holiday when we as a family gather at my house.  Everybody brings something.  Good and faithful friends join us.  Sometimes we have "out-laws" (our in-laws' families).  Thanksgiving is when we seek out the ones who have crossed our paths who do not have family here.  It may be someone we have met through delivering Meals on Wheels, a fellow football official, a handyman recently divorced, anyone who needs a place to go. The only gifts we bring are our presence and our love.  We remember past Thanksgivings, and make note of those who have moved on to the next phase of their journey through eternity.  We sit around the table after the food has been devoured and tell well-known stories, of which we never grow tired. 

It is not fall yet.  But, the leaves of confetti scattered along the ground is a glimpse of the promise.  So, for today, I wish you sweet memories of autumns past, and

blessings


 

Of Babies and Bath Water

Today at church, I sat across the aisle from a young man and his wife.  I have known him his entire life.  He is as fine a man as one would ever hope to meet.  His father is as well.  I love him.  I love his entire family. His mother is a close and trusted friend. They are a common thread that runs through the tapestry of  my life. 

When he was younger, this young man made some bad choices.  He would be the first to admit that.  It is not my story to tell, so I will not share the details.  They are insignificant.  But, in the course of some years, he lost faith in himself and in God.  He also lost faith in Church....that organized, loving, flawed group of people struggling to reflect Jesus in this beautiful world that is often terribly chaotic. 

He was failed by some of us in that church community.  We did not mean to fail him.   We were at times overwhelmed with our own struggles, our own bad choices, our own blindness.  We failed him because of our ignorance.  We failed him because we, ourselves, did not understand how vast and how complete the love of the Father is for each of us.  While we judged his actions, God looked at his heart.  This young man, in a way, abandoned himself and broke his own heart, and because of that, for a season, he could not hear the loving whisperings of the Holy Spirit.  They were drowned out by a cacophony of guilt and shame.

But, as often happens, when the time was right, God sent him a Damascus experience.  It did take more than one such experience before his eyes were opened.   His life did not change immediately and completely as a result of this experience, but the door was ajar.

To further open that door, he was sent a beautiful young woman, who is now his wife.  She is a woman whose dedication to God is strong and sincere.  Like many of us, she finds Church a vehicle for strengthening her faith and for finding a community in which to live.  She is committed to making it part of the life they share. 

This young man could have focused on how we failed him.  By all means, I hope and pray he is cognizant of those failings and their causes.  How could he ever avoid them himself if he was not aware?  But, I am grateful that he did not throw "the baby out with the bath water." How could he ever help us be better without being part of us?  I am grateful that he is willing to give us another chance for it makes my heart soar to see him there.  It blesses my life to see him...the little boy, the messy adolescent, the troubled teenager and the maturing young man, all of whom I love.  None of whom would I have known without this thing called Church Family. 

So, may we all throw out the bath water, but, please may we all keep the baby.

blessings

Longings

Constant tides bring inconstant marketplace;

Inventory renewed by dawn's first light.

Yesterday's imports, the waters erase;

In today's fresh merchandise we delight.

Shoppers peruse what's there for the taking,

Where no money will ever exchange hands.

Shells, sea, and skies all there at our waking.

"Enjoy," is all the shopkeeper demands.

Oh, take me away to the bonny sea,

To the spot where coconut palms sway.

Where all that we see is totally free

And the balance of the world fades away.

For today, wishing you an "at the beach" frame of mind and

blessings

Daddy

Thirteen years ago today, in the wee hours of the morning, my father succumbed to cancer.  He died as he wanted, at home in his own bed.  My mother took meticulous care of him, concerned not at all with her own needs.  He was a non-complaining patient.  She was a non-complaining nurse.  So, he peacefully took his last breath with a good deal of his family standing vigil by his side.  It was the least we could do.  He would have done it for us.



I wondered, before he died, how we would go on without him.  It would not have honored him if he had not. So, we have.  Family members have married, had babies, moved, earned degrees, started businesses, laughed...continued living.  He would be proud of us. 

He was a wonderful dad.  He was well-known for his gentlemanly demeanor.  He had a wonderful dry wit.  His social skills sometimes could mortify my mother like the night they had dinner guests, and he stood up and said, "well, I don't know about you folks, but I have to go to work in the morning.  Good night."  That can really break a party up. 

He was a tinkerer.  He often "repaired" things around the house, and then had to call a repairman to undo the damage.  I loved Saturdays when he would ask who wanted to go to the hardware store with him.  I was always the one who went.  To this day, I love a good hardware store.  I have his old drill.  The trigger sticks, the chuck key is not connected so I am often having to search for it.  The cord is sticky with duct tape residue where the key has been taped many times.  It is because of those Saturdays that I prefer a drawer full of nuts, bolts, hooks, and washers over a drawer of make-up.  He is the reason that some of the best gifts "he who wishes" has given me include a box of various sized drill bits and a welding torch.

Daddy was one of the most self-sacrificial people I have ever known.  I remember a time in particular when he had pneumonia.  Because of his health issues, pneumonia was very dangerous for him.  He called me, and I was coughing my head off with bronchitis.  He asked if I had cough drops, and I said that "he who wishes" was going to get me some on his way home from work.  About thirty minutes later, he was knocking on my back door with a bag of Hall's cough drops.  For himself, he bought the generic brand, but for his kids, nothing but the brand name was good enough.

He was quite the astute businessman.  He bought me a yellow Opal with a black vinyl top when I was a Sophomore in college.  He picked it out, and surprised me with it.  It was such a cute little bright yellow box of a car (probably, why today I drive a Honda Element that looks like a box).  I was so excited.  About 18 months later, I totalled my little Opal.  After receiving the insurance payment, he bought me an Opal Manta.  When "he who wishes" and I married, of course, Daddy gave us the car.  Several years later, we were about to buy another car and offered to give Daddy the Manta if he wanted it.  He wanted it, but he bought it from us.  Great businessman...bought the same car twice.  If my memory serves, he did that again later with a Ford LTD that he gave us and then bought back. 

Daddy was one of eight children.  He was the second to youngest.  He was the one they always counted on.  When his niece was expecting a baby, he was the one who went to her house and set up the baby bed.  She had a dad, but he was the one everyone always called.  He helped my mother care for her parents as they aged.  He cared for my mother's aunt. He was the one who flew to Florida with her when her son died.  He was the one who picked up an elderly family friend for dinners and Christmas Eve celebrations.  He took care of his own mother, his aging sisters and brothers. He would accept nothing in return.  These are just a few examples of his reliability. 

He was color blind.  Sometimes we joked and said he was design blind as well.  He would put on plaid pants and a striped shirt much to my mother's dismay.  He only got out of the house dressed like that if Mom wasn't there to see him.  One of his worst purchases (he loved a deal) was a blue polyester shirt with brown polka dots.  I was with him when he bought it at Levy's.  It had been discounted about 95%....with good reason.  It was hideous.  I did everything I could to discourage the purchase.  I always thought he bought that thing just to get Mom's goat. 

One of our annual outings...just Daddy and me...was to go to Centennial Park at Christmas to see the Nativity Scene.  As the spotlights changed colors, he always asked me what color was up at the moment.  When lighted doorbells became popular, we would drive around neighborhoods and spot those little lights glowing by front doors.  They were sort of the equivalent of "punch buggies" for us.

He could walk around the yard on his hands.  I never learned how to do that.  He taught me how to drive.  He taught me how to drive a stick shift ~ bless his heart.  He did not teach me how to parallel park, so I still can't. He taught me how to pump gas.  He taught me how to value myself.  He taught me  how to use a screw driver, channel locks, and an electric drill.  He taught me how to make do.  He taught me to be grateful for what I have, and to not focus on the things that I think I don't have. He taught me to stay calm in a crisis.  He taught me how not to view my life as being all about me.  He taught me how it feels to be protected and loved and cared for.  He taught me a lot about the nature of God, the Father.

He was not a perfect man.  He fought depression demons his whole life.  He was physically frail in some ways.  He often suffered physical maladies. In spite of this, or possibly because of this, he bettered the lives of those he touched.  I shall forever live in gratitude that he was my dad.  To honor him, I will try to live a life that reflects the things he taught me.  Thirteen years go today, in the wee hours, he succumed to cancer.  He left this leg of his journey through eternity, peacefully and knowing that he was loved.

blessings,

redemption

The lower case "r" is not a mistake.  I know I've been Redeemed ~ "in Him we have Redemption..."  My  redemption today is just a dim reflection of that Redemption through Jesus, but, still notable.

This morning as I drove to Radnor, I was not in a mood.  When I pulled onto Otter Creek Road, I was going the speed limit, and there, as before, were the gentleman and his dog to whom I gave the stink eye last week.  Now, I haven't dwelled on that event.  I haven't beaten myself up and obsessed over my rudeness.  But, I was not proud of my behavior.  This morning, the gentleman smiled and waved.  I smiled and waved back.  I felt redeemed.

When we walk at Radnor, my brother, Sam, and I like to speak to everyone we pass.  I continue that tradition when I am alone on my walks.  There is a man I see walking at Radnor every morning.  He is tall.  He has a regal bearing.  I wonder if he was in the military.  I speak to him every day, and the most I can get from him is a curt nod.  This morning I saw him coming toward me, and I thought, "I just am not going to make the effort to speak.  Seriously, what is the point?"  But, I just can't help myself.  I said, "good morning," to him, and to my amazement, he smiled and responded with a "good morning" himself.  Yay!!!   Another redemption.

I have a friend who, several weeks ago, sort of verbally jumped me in front of a group of people.  It was not the first time it had happened.  I began to feel awkward around her, and pondered what my response should be.  I tried to ascertain if I was just being overly sensitive.  I thought about going to a mutual friend and asking if she knew of anything I had done to cause these outbursts.  I decided to just keep my mouth shut and give it some time.  I've found that often if I sit quietly and wait, situations tend to work out.  Sometimes, when I draw other people into a problem, it just escalates until it does not remotely resemble the original circumstance.  The waiting seems to have paid off.  There is no awkwardness now.  In fact, I feel a closeness to her that I did not feel before.  I don't know what happened to change things.  I just know my relationship with her has been redeemed.

There is a couple I know.  I have ambivalent feelings about them.  I love them because they are God's children, but I perceive a pretentiousness in them that I don't admire.  I know the good deeds they perform because they tell them.  They love to drop names of the rich and famous that they know.  They like to share how much money they spend on things. Sometimes, like adolescents, they share stories of their own inappropriate exploits.  I believe all that comes from a place of insecurity, but while I might understand it (and emulate it at times), I don't admire it.  I found myself in their presence recently, and when I left the event we were attending, I realized that I had not been gracious to them.  I have no right to be that way.  I did what my natural feelings encouraged me to do instead of being intentional in my behavior toward them.  I made a conscious decision that night to work on my conduct.  They may not have even noticed my aloofness, but I did.  I will work toward redeeming my behavior, if not for them, then for myself.

There are other situations in my life that I cannot redeem.  I have life situations where I deeply regret my behavior.  In every instance of which I am aware, I have apologized.  It may have been too little too late for those to whom I have tried to make amends, but it is still all I can do.  I cannot rewrite history.  I cannot unsay what I have said, undo what I have done, nor unwrite what I have written.  Once I have sincerely asked for forgiveness, and if possible, made amends, I have done all that I can do.  It is up to them to forgive if they can.  Often, I think we fail to understand that forgiveness is for the forgiver not so much the forgiven.  Forgiving can redeem a life ~ forgiving others and forgiving ourselves. 

I am ultimately Redeemed by the blood of Jesus, but I live in gratitude for the small redemptions that come my way as I travel through this journey of eternity.  So for today, I wish you small acts of redemption, awareness of your great Redemption, and

blessings