Lately, I have been observing navel gazers. 'Lest I sound extraordinarily judgmental and blind-to-myself, let me say that I can be a champion navel gazer at times. I suspect we all can, but admit it, most of us know someone who rarely, if ever, suspends their navel gazing long enough to look up and see the world around them.
Some may be asking, "what in the world is a navel gazer?" A navel gazer is someone who just cannot seem to quit staring at their own belly button...figuratively. If someone is a literal navel gazer, perhaps a bit of therapy would be in order. Actually, a literal navel gazer would at times be preferable to a figurative one.
Recently, I had a conversation which got my thoughts running in this direction. A friend mentioned a mutual acquaintance. Before I go any further, let me say that this friend is known for neither talking about nor criticizing people. In fact, she is the opposite of that, and almost always finds the good in others. In our conversation, she mentioned how this acquaintance was the most critical person she had ever met. She talked of how sweet the acquaintance's husband was, but that she felt the acquaintance did not have a sweet bone in her body. I said, "it's because she's a navel gazer." It is downright impossible to be sweet to others when you are looking at your own belly button.
Once in a conversation, I heard my daughter make a very profound statement. Someone queried as to whether a particular person was so extraordinarily rude and hateful on purpose. MP replied that it could not be on purpose because the person does not realize there are other people around. That is pretty much the illness of a navel gazer. They see everything that is said or done in terms of how it relates to them.
You know the ones...the ones who act embarrassed by something someone else does or says...as if those actions or words reflect on them. You know who I am talking about...those people who sit in a room of people who have feelings similar to their own...maybe they are all shy, maybe they are all grieving, maybe they are all joyful...whatever, and the navel gazers are so certain that they are the only ones who feel that way. Navel gazers see their concerns and emotions as far more unique than they are. Truth be told, we are all pretty much confused about most of life. If navel gazers would just look around them, they would know that.
Navel gazing manifests itself in a couple different ways. Some navel gazers just beat up on themselves. Nobody could have screwed up as badly as they. No one is as weird as they are. Nobody's life is as pitiful as theirs. Then there are the ones who find themselves to be superior to all those around them. Nobody is as smart as they are. No one does as much as they do. Everybody else is on this earth to annoy them. Sadly, the results are often the same from both genres. Navel gazers do not inconvenience themselves for others. Their comfort and needs are the most important. They are most fascinated by their own belly buttons.
Today at lunch I saw some serious navel gazing. Mr. Lincoln, who is as far from being a navel gazer as anyone I know, and I went out after church. The restaurant was packed and the line was long. When we walked in there were only about 2 tables that were empty. We waited in line to order. A couple walked in several minutes after we did. There were probably a dozen people in line between us. The wife proceeded to find tables to hold...rearranging them to meet her party's needs....while other people were waiting with their food to find a place to eat. Seriously? Bless her heart (a Southern way of saying 'I'd really like to box her ears'), she was oblivious to the people around her.
As if that was not enough, because there were no available tables, they were letting people who were placing to-go orders get out of the line and order at the "call-in" cash register. This is what Mr. Lincoln and I opted for. While waiting for our order so we could come home and eat, we watched a lady jump the line, order food to-go and promptly carry it to her children who were holding a table! Wake up, quit looking at your own belly button, see the lessons you are teaching your children (wrong on so many levels), and have some consideration for the people around you. Please! And, it is Christmastime - the season of goodwill and love. Sadly, both women looked as though they had just come from church.
Yes, I gaze at my navel at times. I can be so guilty of saying "I hear you," when in fact I do not. I can ignore what is going on around me. I can not allow myself to be inconvenienced, or worse, I can do what is asked, and make dadgum sure you know that you have bothered me. I hate it when I do that. I wish I could succinctly word the lessons at church today, but I am neither wise nor articulate enough to do so. I do know, however, that navel gazing prevents our living the abundant life we are meant to live.
For today, I wish you to neither be nor know navel gazers, and I wish you
blessings
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Triumphant
Tuesday night, I attended the memorial service for a 5 day, no, a 9 month and 5 day old baby girl named Elsie. Because of a comment my friend, Lee Camp, made in a class several weeks ago, as I sat at that service, I was struck by all the evidences of gracious hospitality extended to her.
When Elsie's parents learned that they were expecting another baby (she has a big brother, Andrew) I am sure they were thrilled. I am certain that Elsie's mom took extra care of herself in order to care for her growing baby. About halfway through the pregnancy, they learned that Elsie had a chromosomal abnormality called Trisomy 18. All evidence says that Trisomy 18 is not compatible with life. The fact that Elsie's life outside the womb would be very brief did not dissuade her mother from continuing to take care of herself to take care of her baby. Elsie was delivered by C-section on November 20, 2012. She died in her father's arms in the wee hours of the morning on November 25, 2012.
That is not the end of Elsie's story. She was a blessed child. She could not have been shown any greater love as evidenced by the wonderful slide show at her memorial. I am fairly certain that she did not spend many moments outside the arms of someone who deeply loves her...her parents, her brother, her grandparents, her uncle and aunts.
I will not offer empty platitudes or meaningless words of explanation or "comfort." There are none. Elsie's life was brief, but oh, so important. Her parents are grieving, but they are not destroyed. They will not merely survive this. They will triumph over this loss. They will cherish and hold in their hearts, forever, the time they had with Elsie. She will always be an important part of their family.
God walks with this family. They accepted His invitation to join them on their life's journey. I imagine they have a few questions for Him, but they will choose, in faith, to trust.
So for today, I wish you triumph over life's pains, I wish you wisdom in choosing your traveling companions, and I wish you
blessings
When Elsie's parents learned that they were expecting another baby (she has a big brother, Andrew) I am sure they were thrilled. I am certain that Elsie's mom took extra care of herself in order to care for her growing baby. About halfway through the pregnancy, they learned that Elsie had a chromosomal abnormality called Trisomy 18. All evidence says that Trisomy 18 is not compatible with life. The fact that Elsie's life outside the womb would be very brief did not dissuade her mother from continuing to take care of herself to take care of her baby. Elsie was delivered by C-section on November 20, 2012. She died in her father's arms in the wee hours of the morning on November 25, 2012.
That is not the end of Elsie's story. She was a blessed child. She could not have been shown any greater love as evidenced by the wonderful slide show at her memorial. I am fairly certain that she did not spend many moments outside the arms of someone who deeply loves her...her parents, her brother, her grandparents, her uncle and aunts.
I will not offer empty platitudes or meaningless words of explanation or "comfort." There are none. Elsie's life was brief, but oh, so important. Her parents are grieving, but they are not destroyed. They will not merely survive this. They will triumph over this loss. They will cherish and hold in their hearts, forever, the time they had with Elsie. She will always be an important part of their family.
God walks with this family. They accepted His invitation to join them on their life's journey. I imagine they have a few questions for Him, but they will choose, in faith, to trust.
So for today, I wish you triumph over life's pains, I wish you wisdom in choosing your traveling companions, and I wish you
blessings
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Traditions
Honoring good traditions is like wrapping up in an old quilt; familiar and comfortable. This is the time of year for traditions. I am grateful for old traditions and newly begun ones.
On Thanksgiving, driving to our annual Thanksgiving service at church, Mr. Lincoln and I talked about how this was the 61st Thanksgiving for each of us. He said that he did not specifically remember any of them. I remember some generalities and some specifics. Growing up the rule of thumb was "there is always room for someone who has no place to go." We were raised in a very small house, but even if she had to set up borrowed card tables in the bedrooms, my mother always made room and always made people feel welcomed.
Specifically, I remember the Thanksgiving that Daddy had just gotten home from the hospital after surgery. He had to stay in bed, but he was under the same roof with us all. I remember Thanksgiving days at the Clinic Bowl. Most often Isaac Litton and MBA were playing. I remember a Thanksgiving day where I was in a live television commercial wearing a plum colored dress, praying. I remember the Thanksgiving after my brother fired Mr. Lincoln. It was a bit awkward. My first Thanksgiving with Mr. Lincoln's family is one of those stories we should forget but love to repeat. The dining room table and a card table were set up in the den. There were only two seats at the card table. As we gathered together to hold hands and pray over the meal, Mr. Lincoln's mother announced that the two daughters-in-law were to sit at the card table because she wanted the family to all sit together. What? There was the Thanksgiving that Mom called and said that her turkey had been in the oven for 18 hours (maybe a slight exaggeration ) and it wasn't done - "do you think my oven isn't working?" Uh, yeah! So, Mr. Lincoln and I drove across town, packed up dishes and tablecloths and flowers and chairs and silver and uncooked food, brought it to our house, and that began the tradition of Thanksgiving in our home. We had 29 wonderful family and friends this year. I leave you with this question: did you know that gravy dropped on the floor will hit the ceiling? It will.
This year, Mr. Lincoln and I started a new tradition with Simeon and Max. We gave each boy a Christmas ornament, money that corresponds with age, and a note explaining that the only string attached to the money is they are to spend it on someone who cannot reciprocate. We realize they are not a year old yet, and have no idea what any of this is about, but they will. Simeon has decided to spend his money for a toy for Toys for Tots, and Max's parents will save his until he can understand and choose, himself, how the money will be spent. I love how each family approaches the tradition differently.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, it is tradition to go to Mom's to help decorate her tree. She has someone else haul it down from the attic, put it up, and put the lights on. It was a new someone this year. Many branches of the tree were left lying on the attic floor. The tree suffered greatly in appearance from the lack of its branches. Picture the bottom of a tree that is about 15 feet tall; full and lush. Now, picture that large tree chopped off about 10 feet from the bottom. Now, picture a tiny sapling stuck on top. Yep, that's what it looked like. My sister rescued the missing branches, and strategically placed them. The tree has been saved. We put on the ten million (not an exaggeration) ornaments, strands of beads, artificial roses, and glass icicles (moderation at Christmas is not in my mother's vocabulary), placed the angel on top, turned out all the lights (it's tradition), had a drum roll, and Cole plugged in the lights. I cannot remember the last time I heard MP laugh as hard as she did when those lights came on, for while the fullness of the tree looked ever so much better with its restored branches, there was a good-sized and very noticeable section of tree that was dark. So, as we sang the Twelve Days of Christmas (it's tradition) Doree and Mac worked to rearrange lights. All is well, and Nunny's tree is perfectly Nunny. After a dinner of Thanksgiving leftovers, I came home, watched a ridiculous Lifetime Christmas movie and went to bed. Ah, love a good tradition.
Today, Mr. Lincoln is in New York at a football game. I will spend this day in grateful introversion pulling out my own Christmas decorations and setting them about as I prepare for another tradition, the Isaac Litton Class of '70 Girls' Annual Christmas Party, next week. I will listen to Christmas music, kill brain cells watching two or three Hallmark Christmas movies, ponder over each decoration as I take it out, and thoroughly enjoy my day of solitude. I am wearing my dad's Ryman Auditorium Christmas sweatshirt. It's tradition. Tomorrow, Mr. Lincoln and I will go together to pick out our tree. It will not take long, but we always go together. Next year, perhaps, two little boys will go with us? We will have our annual Christmas Eve gathering with my family; this year at my niece's home. We will have Christmas breakfast at our house. As families grow, traditions must change. My parents were always so understanding of that, and I want to be as well. Perhaps, this will be the last Christmas breakfast on Christmas morning. Maybe we will have Christmas breakfast for dinner on Christmas night, or the next day. It does not matter when or where. It only matters with whom.
As I share these few traditions, less joyful threads are woven in my tapestry. I think of the young wife and mother who was served divorce papers this past week. I think of three relatively young widowers who face their first holidays without their wives. I think of friends who have lost parents this year. I think of the young couple whose newborn child is not expected to live. As I celebrate my traditions, I remember these and others whose joy is tempered with great pain. I know that I will have painful holidays in the future, touched by loss. Those are the times that I will most appreciate the familiar warmth and comfort of much-loved traditions.
For today, I wish you peace and comfort as you contiune old and begin new traditions, a remembrance of those whose hearts ache during this time, and I wish you
blessings
On Thanksgiving, driving to our annual Thanksgiving service at church, Mr. Lincoln and I talked about how this was the 61st Thanksgiving for each of us. He said that he did not specifically remember any of them. I remember some generalities and some specifics. Growing up the rule of thumb was "there is always room for someone who has no place to go." We were raised in a very small house, but even if she had to set up borrowed card tables in the bedrooms, my mother always made room and always made people feel welcomed.
Specifically, I remember the Thanksgiving that Daddy had just gotten home from the hospital after surgery. He had to stay in bed, but he was under the same roof with us all. I remember Thanksgiving days at the Clinic Bowl. Most often Isaac Litton and MBA were playing. I remember a Thanksgiving day where I was in a live television commercial wearing a plum colored dress, praying. I remember the Thanksgiving after my brother fired Mr. Lincoln. It was a bit awkward. My first Thanksgiving with Mr. Lincoln's family is one of those stories we should forget but love to repeat. The dining room table and a card table were set up in the den. There were only two seats at the card table. As we gathered together to hold hands and pray over the meal, Mr. Lincoln's mother announced that the two daughters-in-law were to sit at the card table because she wanted the family to all sit together. What? There was the Thanksgiving that Mom called and said that her turkey had been in the oven for 18 hours (maybe a slight exaggeration ) and it wasn't done - "do you think my oven isn't working?" Uh, yeah! So, Mr. Lincoln and I drove across town, packed up dishes and tablecloths and flowers and chairs and silver and uncooked food, brought it to our house, and that began the tradition of Thanksgiving in our home. We had 29 wonderful family and friends this year. I leave you with this question: did you know that gravy dropped on the floor will hit the ceiling? It will.
This year, Mr. Lincoln and I started a new tradition with Simeon and Max. We gave each boy a Christmas ornament, money that corresponds with age, and a note explaining that the only string attached to the money is they are to spend it on someone who cannot reciprocate. We realize they are not a year old yet, and have no idea what any of this is about, but they will. Simeon has decided to spend his money for a toy for Toys for Tots, and Max's parents will save his until he can understand and choose, himself, how the money will be spent. I love how each family approaches the tradition differently.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, it is tradition to go to Mom's to help decorate her tree. She has someone else haul it down from the attic, put it up, and put the lights on. It was a new someone this year. Many branches of the tree were left lying on the attic floor. The tree suffered greatly in appearance from the lack of its branches. Picture the bottom of a tree that is about 15 feet tall; full and lush. Now, picture that large tree chopped off about 10 feet from the bottom. Now, picture a tiny sapling stuck on top. Yep, that's what it looked like. My sister rescued the missing branches, and strategically placed them. The tree has been saved. We put on the ten million (not an exaggeration) ornaments, strands of beads, artificial roses, and glass icicles (moderation at Christmas is not in my mother's vocabulary), placed the angel on top, turned out all the lights (it's tradition), had a drum roll, and Cole plugged in the lights. I cannot remember the last time I heard MP laugh as hard as she did when those lights came on, for while the fullness of the tree looked ever so much better with its restored branches, there was a good-sized and very noticeable section of tree that was dark. So, as we sang the Twelve Days of Christmas (it's tradition) Doree and Mac worked to rearrange lights. All is well, and Nunny's tree is perfectly Nunny. After a dinner of Thanksgiving leftovers, I came home, watched a ridiculous Lifetime Christmas movie and went to bed. Ah, love a good tradition.
Today, Mr. Lincoln is in New York at a football game. I will spend this day in grateful introversion pulling out my own Christmas decorations and setting them about as I prepare for another tradition, the Isaac Litton Class of '70 Girls' Annual Christmas Party, next week. I will listen to Christmas music, kill brain cells watching two or three Hallmark Christmas movies, ponder over each decoration as I take it out, and thoroughly enjoy my day of solitude. I am wearing my dad's Ryman Auditorium Christmas sweatshirt. It's tradition. Tomorrow, Mr. Lincoln and I will go together to pick out our tree. It will not take long, but we always go together. Next year, perhaps, two little boys will go with us? We will have our annual Christmas Eve gathering with my family; this year at my niece's home. We will have Christmas breakfast at our house. As families grow, traditions must change. My parents were always so understanding of that, and I want to be as well. Perhaps, this will be the last Christmas breakfast on Christmas morning. Maybe we will have Christmas breakfast for dinner on Christmas night, or the next day. It does not matter when or where. It only matters with whom.
As I share these few traditions, less joyful threads are woven in my tapestry. I think of the young wife and mother who was served divorce papers this past week. I think of three relatively young widowers who face their first holidays without their wives. I think of friends who have lost parents this year. I think of the young couple whose newborn child is not expected to live. As I celebrate my traditions, I remember these and others whose joy is tempered with great pain. I know that I will have painful holidays in the future, touched by loss. Those are the times that I will most appreciate the familiar warmth and comfort of much-loved traditions.
For today, I wish you peace and comfort as you contiune old and begin new traditions, a remembrance of those whose hearts ache during this time, and I wish you
blessings
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Ripples
I attended a funeral today. I had never met the man who died. He was the brother of a friend. Many people were there. It was standing room only. Some of those people I knew; most I did not.
The service began with the ancient hymn, Be Thou My Vision. Knowing that it is a very old hymn, I looked up the history. I learned that the words were written as a poem in the 6th century and the melody was written in Ireland in the 8th. I wondered how many people over the centuries have been both inspired and comforted by that hymn. The chapel where I sat was fairly modern, but during that sacred song, I was transported to some aged cathedral surrounded by all the saints whose lives have been touched by that melody and those words. The poet who penned the words and the musician who set out the notes had no idea how in the 21st century the ripples of their lives would be felt and appreciated by a lone woman sitting at the funeral service of man she never met.
Awaiting the start of the service, I sat engrossed in my own disjointed thoughts. A couple sat beside me. They knew the people in front of them. They spoke of the deceased and his family. After a few moments, the wife touched my arm and asked me how I was doing. I told her, "fine." I found her question to be amazingly kind. She asked how I knew the man who had died. I explained that I did not know him, but that I go to church with his sister, a woman I greatly admire. This lovely woman explained that her son and his family also go to our church. She gave me their names. I exclaimed how I love her son and his wife and children. I also explained that I grew up in the church with her husband. I should have recognized him. She asked my name; whispered it to him. He remembered my family. I remember his well. It also dawned on me that a year or so ago, I was praying fervently for this woman, the mother of a friend, a woman I had not met until this day. I asked how she was doing. "Really well," she replied. I felt little ripples from that church family of my childhood and ripples going out from my present church family.
This man who had died, that I never met, was an amazing person. He was a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend. He will be remembered by those who knew him as a servant who cooked for many, and often wrote notes of encouragement to those who both grieved and rejoiced. Today, the unanswered questions as to why, in this modern world, there were no adequate medicines to heal him haunt his family. There are unanswered questions as to why God did not see fit to intervene. But, I sat in that chapel, at the funeral of a man I never met, and felt the ripples of his life lapping against me. I left that place feeling as though I knew him, and inspired, by his life, to live a better one myself.
So, for today, I wish you gentle, healing ripples from the lives of those around you and gentle, healing ripples sent from you for those who cross your path, and I wish you
blessings
The service began with the ancient hymn, Be Thou My Vision. Knowing that it is a very old hymn, I looked up the history. I learned that the words were written as a poem in the 6th century and the melody was written in Ireland in the 8th. I wondered how many people over the centuries have been both inspired and comforted by that hymn. The chapel where I sat was fairly modern, but during that sacred song, I was transported to some aged cathedral surrounded by all the saints whose lives have been touched by that melody and those words. The poet who penned the words and the musician who set out the notes had no idea how in the 21st century the ripples of their lives would be felt and appreciated by a lone woman sitting at the funeral service of man she never met.
Awaiting the start of the service, I sat engrossed in my own disjointed thoughts. A couple sat beside me. They knew the people in front of them. They spoke of the deceased and his family. After a few moments, the wife touched my arm and asked me how I was doing. I told her, "fine." I found her question to be amazingly kind. She asked how I knew the man who had died. I explained that I did not know him, but that I go to church with his sister, a woman I greatly admire. This lovely woman explained that her son and his family also go to our church. She gave me their names. I exclaimed how I love her son and his wife and children. I also explained that I grew up in the church with her husband. I should have recognized him. She asked my name; whispered it to him. He remembered my family. I remember his well. It also dawned on me that a year or so ago, I was praying fervently for this woman, the mother of a friend, a woman I had not met until this day. I asked how she was doing. "Really well," she replied. I felt little ripples from that church family of my childhood and ripples going out from my present church family.
This man who had died, that I never met, was an amazing person. He was a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend. He will be remembered by those who knew him as a servant who cooked for many, and often wrote notes of encouragement to those who both grieved and rejoiced. Today, the unanswered questions as to why, in this modern world, there were no adequate medicines to heal him haunt his family. There are unanswered questions as to why God did not see fit to intervene. But, I sat in that chapel, at the funeral of a man I never met, and felt the ripples of his life lapping against me. I left that place feeling as though I knew him, and inspired, by his life, to live a better one myself.
So, for today, I wish you gentle, healing ripples from the lives of those around you and gentle, healing ripples sent from you for those who cross your path, and I wish you
blessings
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Privileged
I posted on FB today, in a subtle response to ALL the political vitriol. I made the statement that all I really know about the current election is that I voted yesterday. I voted with a choice and with no threats. I consider it a privilege and not a right. Someone questioned me about why I do not consider it my right as a U.S. citizen. My response was because I did not earn it. Probably, it is just a matter of semantics. I find life ever so much more enjoyable when I view the gifts around me as privileges and not rights. As odd as it may sound, privileges seem, to me, to come with responsibility while rights come with entitlement. Again, probably just a matter of semantics.
The reason I voted yesterday is because I am going to be in Florida on election day. I will get up, get in my car, pick up my mother and sister, and drive down the east coast of Florida for a week of rest and relaxation. I am not scrambling to get permission from the government to cross state lines. I consider it a privilege to be able to go wherever and whenever I have the time and money without having to let the government know about it. I will not be passing checkpoints as I travel. People in other places are not so fortunate. That is why I voted yesterday. Someone close to me informed me that they would not be voting, and when I made a puzzled look (possibly translated critical look) they informed me that it was their privilege to not vote. Touche.
I voted yesterday in one of my favorite places ever - a library. I love the notion of a free lending-library. Seriously, what a privilege to go to a place and select books to read, return them, and get more. The free library is not always free to me because I often am derelict in returning books on time, so I pay overdue fines. That to me makes the difference in privilege and right. I have no right to be able to go check out books for free. With that privilege comes responsibility - take care of the books, return them on time or pay a fine. If it were my right, I would be incensed that someone would expect me to return the book ever.
After I voted, Mr. Lincoln and I went to see the movie Argo. That movie drove home even more strongly what a privilege it is to live here. There are no burned out cars on the side of the road, no bodies hanging from construction cranes. Please, do not hear me saying I think this is a perfect place to live. Certainly, we have lots of problems...big problems. It would be impossible to name them all, and what some would consider problems, others would consider solutions. History tells me that we have had better times in this country, and we have had much worse times. It will be interesting to see who is elected. It will be interesting to see if whomever is elected actually accomplishes anything of great importance. We will see. But, in the meantime, I will make every effort to live in gratitude for all the privileges I enjoy. I will also strive to not let this election dictate the level of peace in my mind.
So, for today, I wish you appreciation for the privileges life affords you, and I wish you
blessings
The reason I voted yesterday is because I am going to be in Florida on election day. I will get up, get in my car, pick up my mother and sister, and drive down the east coast of Florida for a week of rest and relaxation. I am not scrambling to get permission from the government to cross state lines. I consider it a privilege to be able to go wherever and whenever I have the time and money without having to let the government know about it. I will not be passing checkpoints as I travel. People in other places are not so fortunate. That is why I voted yesterday. Someone close to me informed me that they would not be voting, and when I made a puzzled look (possibly translated critical look) they informed me that it was their privilege to not vote. Touche.
I voted yesterday in one of my favorite places ever - a library. I love the notion of a free lending-library. Seriously, what a privilege to go to a place and select books to read, return them, and get more. The free library is not always free to me because I often am derelict in returning books on time, so I pay overdue fines. That to me makes the difference in privilege and right. I have no right to be able to go check out books for free. With that privilege comes responsibility - take care of the books, return them on time or pay a fine. If it were my right, I would be incensed that someone would expect me to return the book ever.
After I voted, Mr. Lincoln and I went to see the movie Argo. That movie drove home even more strongly what a privilege it is to live here. There are no burned out cars on the side of the road, no bodies hanging from construction cranes. Please, do not hear me saying I think this is a perfect place to live. Certainly, we have lots of problems...big problems. It would be impossible to name them all, and what some would consider problems, others would consider solutions. History tells me that we have had better times in this country, and we have had much worse times. It will be interesting to see who is elected. It will be interesting to see if whomever is elected actually accomplishes anything of great importance. We will see. But, in the meantime, I will make every effort to live in gratitude for all the privileges I enjoy. I will also strive to not let this election dictate the level of peace in my mind.
So, for today, I wish you appreciation for the privileges life affords you, and I wish you
blessings
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
With God's Help
His wife of 37 years is gone. He has suffered with ALS for over 20 years. She was his caretaker. She was his voice. She was the laughter and humor in his days. She died because of a mistake someone else made. She was healthy and whole trying to get relief from neck pain in order to continue his care and all the other activities in her life. When asked if he is angry, he replies, "I'm not angry. Why would I be angry? I am a blessed man." Some would call him foolish. I call him a mighty warrior. He may be physically frail, but he is spiritually and emotionally robust. In his deep grief, with God's help, he triumphs.
They are adorable. They are, to me, a young couple. Their child is as a character in a quaint children's book. They laugh, they smile, they love. While they were out to dinner, their house burned. They lost almost everything. She is an artist with art shows coming up, and a good deal of her art destroyed. When asked what she wanted the firemen to try to rescue, she replied her laptop and her daughter's Pooh Bear. When laments are expressed over the loss of their beautiful, charming home, she replies, "home is where my husband and daughter hang their hats." Some may find their response odd, but I am inspired by them. They, with God's help, are moving forward. They are not simply surviving, they are thriving.
Her husband has left her. He has left her with three children. She is deeply wounded. When given the opportunity to share his faults, she will not. Despite his misguided ways and his poor decisions, she loves him. Truly, after her children, her greatest concern is for him. She is learning to open up and sincerely share her life with those she trusts. She does not go about polluting the air with bitter vitriolic talk. She leaves the drama behind and puts one step in front of the other, caring for her children, doing her job, and praying for her husband. Some would encourage her to "make him pay." I find myself awestruck by her dignity, her lack of retribution, and her refusal to blame. With God's help, she will overcome.
These are people I know and love. I feel privileged to have them in my life. They counter those who seem to create one crisis after the other. They give me hope for those who cannot seem to shut their mouths for the good of others. They remind me that bashing and trash talking are not necessary. They contrast sharply those who refuse to set themselves aside for the greater good. They let me know that those quick to anger are not to be emulated. They do not hold grudges. They are not angry. How do they manage? The only explanation I can find is their genuine reliance on God, and their wholehearted participation in community. I watch and learn. I am grateful for their influence. My life is enriched for knowing them. Through them I get a glimpse of Kingdom life.
So for today, I wish you community, good examples, and I wish you
blessings
They are adorable. They are, to me, a young couple. Their child is as a character in a quaint children's book. They laugh, they smile, they love. While they were out to dinner, their house burned. They lost almost everything. She is an artist with art shows coming up, and a good deal of her art destroyed. When asked what she wanted the firemen to try to rescue, she replied her laptop and her daughter's Pooh Bear. When laments are expressed over the loss of their beautiful, charming home, she replies, "home is where my husband and daughter hang their hats." Some may find their response odd, but I am inspired by them. They, with God's help, are moving forward. They are not simply surviving, they are thriving.
Her husband has left her. He has left her with three children. She is deeply wounded. When given the opportunity to share his faults, she will not. Despite his misguided ways and his poor decisions, she loves him. Truly, after her children, her greatest concern is for him. She is learning to open up and sincerely share her life with those she trusts. She does not go about polluting the air with bitter vitriolic talk. She leaves the drama behind and puts one step in front of the other, caring for her children, doing her job, and praying for her husband. Some would encourage her to "make him pay." I find myself awestruck by her dignity, her lack of retribution, and her refusal to blame. With God's help, she will overcome.
These are people I know and love. I feel privileged to have them in my life. They counter those who seem to create one crisis after the other. They give me hope for those who cannot seem to shut their mouths for the good of others. They remind me that bashing and trash talking are not necessary. They contrast sharply those who refuse to set themselves aside for the greater good. They let me know that those quick to anger are not to be emulated. They do not hold grudges. They are not angry. How do they manage? The only explanation I can find is their genuine reliance on God, and their wholehearted participation in community. I watch and learn. I am grateful for their influence. My life is enriched for knowing them. Through them I get a glimpse of Kingdom life.
So for today, I wish you community, good examples, and I wish you
blessings
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Crossing the Causeway
Mr. Lincoln and I are blessed to be able to go to Sanibel Island every January. We love it there. We drive. It is a long trip. Georgia is a very long state. I get very restless as we drive. There is not a lot that is particularly beautiful in south Georgia; just a lot of kudzu and scruffy pine trees. The entire trip, I anxiously await the moment when we cross the causeway and once again, I feel at home.
My friend, Diana, crossed the causeway yesterday. Once again, she is home. I have always wondered if we leave the presence of God for the earthly part of our journey only to return home again at the end of this leg of the trip. Sort of like driving through south Georgia to get to the island. Diana is the first person that I ever heard claim boldly and loudly, "this world is not my home." She knew she was not going to stay in south Georgia.
Those of us still traveling are going to miss her big laugh, her self-deprecation, her very presence as we continue on our journey. We mourn that she finished this part of the journey before us. We want her to still be traveling with us, keeping us entertained. The truth is, she will continue to travel with us. We will laugh and be comforted as we share Diana stories. Sometimes, when we least expect it, a memory will cross our minds; we will see her smiling in our mind's eye. We will be grateful to have had her as a traveling companion for a time.
Diana has crossed the causeway. She can now say, "this world is my home."
blessings
My friend, Diana, crossed the causeway yesterday. Once again, she is home. I have always wondered if we leave the presence of God for the earthly part of our journey only to return home again at the end of this leg of the trip. Sort of like driving through south Georgia to get to the island. Diana is the first person that I ever heard claim boldly and loudly, "this world is not my home." She knew she was not going to stay in south Georgia.
Those of us still traveling are going to miss her big laugh, her self-deprecation, her very presence as we continue on our journey. We mourn that she finished this part of the journey before us. We want her to still be traveling with us, keeping us entertained. The truth is, she will continue to travel with us. We will laugh and be comforted as we share Diana stories. Sometimes, when we least expect it, a memory will cross our minds; we will see her smiling in our mind's eye. We will be grateful to have had her as a traveling companion for a time.
Diana has crossed the causeway. She can now say, "this world is my home."
blessings
Monday, October 1, 2012
God, Are You There?
How can this be anything but devastating? What possible good can come from this? How can all those prayers, those pleas for mercy and healing go unanswered? How can a family suffer so?
"How long, O Lord? Will you forget us forever? How long will you hide your face...How long must we wrestle with our thoughts and every day have sorrow in our hearts...?"
We know that if the Psalmist, a man after God's own heart, can express anger and frustration, that we can as well. It is without fear that we rail against this pain and what feels like complete injustice and silence from God.
"Will the Lord reject forever? Will he never show his favor again? Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?"
She had hard days. Her beloved husband has been progressively and devastatingly ill with ALS for over twenty years. She cared for his physical needs, and he cared for her emotional needs. As we have watched his body weaken, we have watched his spirit strengthen. Why must he live out his days without her? Why must her sons?
Hearts are broken. Friends are grieving. A circle of family is breaking. We do not know why. Some of us will having difficulty knowing where to turn in the next few days. Most of us will go to the only place we know; to our God - the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. Even as we question, we say: "...I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds."
We are confused, hurt, and, yes, angry; still we will "give praise to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." We will walk through the next days and weeks and months and years, believing that He walks with us and grieves with us. We will struggle to live that out for each other.
We pray that she will go gently, and that soon she will have complete joy and rest and healing. We choose, in faith, to believe "the Lord gives strength to his people; the Lord blesses his people with peace"
So for all of us who weep today, I pray blessings
"How long, O Lord? Will you forget us forever? How long will you hide your face...How long must we wrestle with our thoughts and every day have sorrow in our hearts...?"
We know that if the Psalmist, a man after God's own heart, can express anger and frustration, that we can as well. It is without fear that we rail against this pain and what feels like complete injustice and silence from God.
"Will the Lord reject forever? Will he never show his favor again? Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?"
She had hard days. Her beloved husband has been progressively and devastatingly ill with ALS for over twenty years. She cared for his physical needs, and he cared for her emotional needs. As we have watched his body weaken, we have watched his spirit strengthen. Why must he live out his days without her? Why must her sons?
Hearts are broken. Friends are grieving. A circle of family is breaking. We do not know why. Some of us will having difficulty knowing where to turn in the next few days. Most of us will go to the only place we know; to our God - the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. Even as we question, we say: "...I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds."
We are confused, hurt, and, yes, angry; still we will "give praise to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." We will walk through the next days and weeks and months and years, believing that He walks with us and grieves with us. We will struggle to live that out for each other.
We pray that she will go gently, and that soon she will have complete joy and rest and healing. We choose, in faith, to believe "the Lord gives strength to his people; the Lord blesses his people with peace"
So for all of us who weep today, I pray blessings
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Felled, But Not Defeated
She was a warrior. She faced illness and pain and surgery and treatments and hair loss and wickedly harsh medicine with optimism, hope and joy. She found no pleasure in the attention that was necessary for her care. She would have much preferred to be the servant, not the served. Sunday morning she suffered a massive stroke. Tuesday evening, after her family mercifully withdrew life support, she officially passed away. When I visited her in that CCU room with machines keeping her "alive," I sensed that she had already left this phase of her eternal journey, and that she was whole and healthy again.
I am no theologian. I do not pretend to know when souls leave bodies. I do not know where they go from here. I only know that her indomitable spirit was not present in the body, so familiar, lying in that bed. Forgive me when I scoff, too, at the notion that she was hovering above, out of body, watching the proceedings going on in that room. That would have been a punishment too hard to bear...watching the unspeakable grief and pain of her child, her husband, her siblings, her friends, and others who dearly loved her.
She was my cousin. We grew up together on Saturdays at my grandmother's. We played Rock School, 1 2 3 Redlight, Mother May I, Fruit Basket Turnover, and Poor Kitty. We made inedible goulash from Dutch Cleanser and other chemicals. We ate thimble biscuits that looked like little dirty toes. We learned our colors from a Tiffany chandelier made of stained glass fruit. We learned math skills from flash cards stuck on the kitchen wall. We perused the Lone Ranger scrapbook over and over. We played house outside. We played school inside. We shared ambrosia; she ate the coconut and I age the oranges. We walked to the store and spent our dimes on candy, always wondering how her twin brother ended up with more candy than we. It took a while, but we learned that he always got an extra nickle because he was the only boy. We swang on the porch swing. As we got older, we discussed the facts of life, and let me say, for the longest time we truly did not have our "facts" straight.
As we grew, we lost touch with one another except through our parents. I married very young. She married later. I had children fairly early. Her daughter came to her a bit later. Our lives just became a bit different. I do not remember exactly when our separate paths merged again. I remember walking with her as she started the adoption process of her precious Sarah. Maybe that was it. I just do not remember for, truly, she has always been part of me.
Twelve years ago, we spent two weeks together in Boston. She was beginning the first stage of a stem cell transplant. In her mind, I wore the title "caretaker," but in truth, we took care of each other. It was a bonding time for cousins reunited. She attacked that process with the faith of a child. It was the beginning of a raging battle that she fought for all those years. She embraced with relish the respites she found from the fight. She was blessed with a childlike wonder at the world. She had a childlike love for everyone around her, and as a result she was greatly loved herself.
There is a big difference between childlike and childish. She had not a childish bone in her body. She did not complain. She did not pout. She did not rail against God. She did not give up. She did not cave in. She put her make up on. She fixed her hair. She smiled. She inquired as to the well-being of you and your family. She fought valiantly. She has won her victory.
Martha Binkley Hains, forever known as A'chie to her family, will be greatly missed. Her departure from this phase of our eternal journey leaves us grieved. We would have loved to have been able to travel together a while longer, but it was not to be. We must take time to mourn our loss, but we will not honor her if we stay mired in our sadness.
So for today, I wish you sweet memories, people to love and inspire you, and I wish you
blessings
I am no theologian. I do not pretend to know when souls leave bodies. I do not know where they go from here. I only know that her indomitable spirit was not present in the body, so familiar, lying in that bed. Forgive me when I scoff, too, at the notion that she was hovering above, out of body, watching the proceedings going on in that room. That would have been a punishment too hard to bear...watching the unspeakable grief and pain of her child, her husband, her siblings, her friends, and others who dearly loved her.
She was my cousin. We grew up together on Saturdays at my grandmother's. We played Rock School, 1 2 3 Redlight, Mother May I, Fruit Basket Turnover, and Poor Kitty. We made inedible goulash from Dutch Cleanser and other chemicals. We ate thimble biscuits that looked like little dirty toes. We learned our colors from a Tiffany chandelier made of stained glass fruit. We learned math skills from flash cards stuck on the kitchen wall. We perused the Lone Ranger scrapbook over and over. We played house outside. We played school inside. We shared ambrosia; she ate the coconut and I age the oranges. We walked to the store and spent our dimes on candy, always wondering how her twin brother ended up with more candy than we. It took a while, but we learned that he always got an extra nickle because he was the only boy. We swang on the porch swing. As we got older, we discussed the facts of life, and let me say, for the longest time we truly did not have our "facts" straight.
As we grew, we lost touch with one another except through our parents. I married very young. She married later. I had children fairly early. Her daughter came to her a bit later. Our lives just became a bit different. I do not remember exactly when our separate paths merged again. I remember walking with her as she started the adoption process of her precious Sarah. Maybe that was it. I just do not remember for, truly, she has always been part of me.
Twelve years ago, we spent two weeks together in Boston. She was beginning the first stage of a stem cell transplant. In her mind, I wore the title "caretaker," but in truth, we took care of each other. It was a bonding time for cousins reunited. She attacked that process with the faith of a child. It was the beginning of a raging battle that she fought for all those years. She embraced with relish the respites she found from the fight. She was blessed with a childlike wonder at the world. She had a childlike love for everyone around her, and as a result she was greatly loved herself.
There is a big difference between childlike and childish. She had not a childish bone in her body. She did not complain. She did not pout. She did not rail against God. She did not give up. She did not cave in. She put her make up on. She fixed her hair. She smiled. She inquired as to the well-being of you and your family. She fought valiantly. She has won her victory.
Martha Binkley Hains, forever known as A'chie to her family, will be greatly missed. Her departure from this phase of our eternal journey leaves us grieved. We would have loved to have been able to travel together a while longer, but it was not to be. We must take time to mourn our loss, but we will not honor her if we stay mired in our sadness.
So for today, I wish you sweet memories, people to love and inspire you, and I wish you
blessings
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Surely, I Did Not Just Do That
I put my checkbook in my purse yesterday. Actually, my purse is really a wallet on a string. It is not designed to hold a checkbook and a cell phone, so as I walk through tall wet grass at a yard sale, I discover that my phone is missing. MP walks back to the car to get her phone to call me. My ring is birds chirping. We are outside on a fall morning. Birds are chirping. Fortunately, MP's specific ring has chimes along with birds, and so with relative ease, I find my phone. In an effort to not lose it again, I put it in my purse and transfer my checkbook to the back pocket of my jeans. This later proves to be an unwise decision.
After the yard sale, MP and I head to Lowe's. After drinking my usual morning beverage, a large Diet Coke, I find that my first stop at the store needs to be the restroom. That taken care of, I wander around the store to find MP who is looking for some cabinet knobs. I am on a somewhat less reasonable quest for large eye screws and six foot pieces of rebar. I explain my hairbrained scheme, and ask MP if she could see any reason it will not work. Her reply is, " it makes sense to me, but I imagine there will come a time when you find out why it won't work." That is pretty much what I thought, but still I persist in my plans. I leave Lowe's with four eye screws and no rebar because it will not fit in MP's car. We head home, where I have big plans to do some painting, window washing, and some other equally fun activities.
As I am painting, my phone rings. The conversation goes somewhat like this:
Me: "Hello?" (Sometimes, I must answer the phone in a childlike voice for earlier in the week someone asked if they could speak to my mother).
Lady on phone whose name I learn is Martha: "uhmmmmmm, is this a Marilyn Switzer?"
Me: "yes."
Martha: "This may be a weird question, but were you in the bathroom at Lowe's Hardware today?"
Me: "Did you say Lowe's?"
Martha: "Yes, ma'am."
Me: "Yes, I was at Lowe's."
Martha: "Oh, well I found your checkbook in one of the toilets. I have it. I thought about flushing it, but I thought it would stop up the toilet, and so I got it out. It is pretty wet. I figured you might need it."
I am extremely impressed with someone who would fish a checkbook out of a toilet in a store that has two aisles filled with plumbing supplies.
Me: "Oh, it must have fallen out of my back pocket." Good grief. I really need to get a real purse.
Martha: "What would you like for me to do with it."
Me: "There are not many checks in that book, so if you would just tear them up and throw them away, that would be great, and thank you so much. You are very kind."
Martha: "Well, I know how I feel when I lose my debit card or checks, I've never dropped them in the toilet, but, you just never know what somebody might do with them."
I am thinking what most people would do is flush them, and I refrain from regaling Martha with the many times I have dropped either my checkbook, my purse, my keys, my nametag at church (hard to deny that one), and various other things into toilets around town, but I do not want to scare her.
Me: "Martha, you are truly a Good Samaritan (I guess literally she is a Good Nashvillian). I hope you have a wonderful day."
Martha: (laughing) "I hope you do too."
Back to my painting. About an hour later, the phone rings. Imagine my surprise when I learn that it is Martha again. She is apologizing for bothering me. I assure her that she is not.
Martha: "Well, I noticed on the back of your checkbook some numbers written. I thought you might need them."
Me: "What kind of numbers?" I am wondering if I have written a credit card number on the book of checks. I really have no idea.
Martha: "They look like phone numbers. One has CL written by it and one has SCH. I don't know what that means, but I was worried that you might need them."
I think for a moment, and then it dawns on me that Mr. Lincoln had written those phone numbers on the first piece of paper he could find, the checkbook, and they belonged to a teacher who wants to book a tour. Hmmmmmmmmmmm, I should have called her by now. Wonder why she doesn't reply to my emails instead of wanting to talk on the phone. Well, I do like to get caught up with her and her family each year.....a tap on my wandering mind, and I come back to Martha. "Oh, yes, Martha, I do need those numbers. You are the nicest person. Thank you so much."
Martha and I hang up, and I return to my painting. Painting is a solitary activity, and so the mind wanders....I wonder why Martha still had my checkbook....is she drying it out to use the checks....no, someone who fishes a checkbook out of a public toilet would not do that....a desperate person might...Mr. Lincoln is not going to be happy about this IF he ever finds out....oh, he won't really care, but maybe I should call Martha back and ask her the numbers on the checks, just in case this turns out like that fender bender...Mr. Lindoln really was not happy when I did not call the police after being rear-ended by a lovely young man in a company truck who begged me not to call the authorities because his boss would be really mad...yep, funny how "boss" was code for "the man who owns the business and from whom I stole this truck".....yeah, I better call Martha and get those check numbers... how will I get her number, not having caller ID...oh, I'll dial *69...that will work.
The phone is ringing. Martha answers. I begin apologizing for bothering her. She says she was worried that she had upset me with the second call. I am thinking what must I have sounded like to cause her to worry about my being upset with her...I really must work on my phone etiquette, how do I ask her for the check numbers without her feeling like I don't trust her, I know I'll blame it on Mr. Lincoln, he won't care...so I ask her for the numbers explaining that my husband, the attorney, will be much happier if he knows that I know what the numbers were on the checks that were flushed. She is very understanding. I thank her over and over. We bid each other fond farewells. I go back to my painting, and decide that perhaps I just will not leave the house again.
So for today I wish you a Martha guardian angel to look after you when you do stupid things, and I wish you
blessings
After the yard sale, MP and I head to Lowe's. After drinking my usual morning beverage, a large Diet Coke, I find that my first stop at the store needs to be the restroom. That taken care of, I wander around the store to find MP who is looking for some cabinet knobs. I am on a somewhat less reasonable quest for large eye screws and six foot pieces of rebar. I explain my hairbrained scheme, and ask MP if she could see any reason it will not work. Her reply is, " it makes sense to me, but I imagine there will come a time when you find out why it won't work." That is pretty much what I thought, but still I persist in my plans. I leave Lowe's with four eye screws and no rebar because it will not fit in MP's car. We head home, where I have big plans to do some painting, window washing, and some other equally fun activities.
As I am painting, my phone rings. The conversation goes somewhat like this:
Me: "Hello?" (Sometimes, I must answer the phone in a childlike voice for earlier in the week someone asked if they could speak to my mother).
Lady on phone whose name I learn is Martha: "uhmmmmmm, is this a Marilyn Switzer?"
Me: "yes."
Martha: "This may be a weird question, but were you in the bathroom at Lowe's Hardware today?"
Me: "Did you say Lowe's?"
Martha: "Yes, ma'am."
Me: "Yes, I was at Lowe's."
Martha: "Oh, well I found your checkbook in one of the toilets. I have it. I thought about flushing it, but I thought it would stop up the toilet, and so I got it out. It is pretty wet. I figured you might need it."
I am extremely impressed with someone who would fish a checkbook out of a toilet in a store that has two aisles filled with plumbing supplies.
Me: "Oh, it must have fallen out of my back pocket." Good grief. I really need to get a real purse.
Martha: "What would you like for me to do with it."
Me: "There are not many checks in that book, so if you would just tear them up and throw them away, that would be great, and thank you so much. You are very kind."
Martha: "Well, I know how I feel when I lose my debit card or checks, I've never dropped them in the toilet, but, you just never know what somebody might do with them."
I am thinking what most people would do is flush them, and I refrain from regaling Martha with the many times I have dropped either my checkbook, my purse, my keys, my nametag at church (hard to deny that one), and various other things into toilets around town, but I do not want to scare her.
Me: "Martha, you are truly a Good Samaritan (I guess literally she is a Good Nashvillian). I hope you have a wonderful day."
Martha: (laughing) "I hope you do too."
Back to my painting. About an hour later, the phone rings. Imagine my surprise when I learn that it is Martha again. She is apologizing for bothering me. I assure her that she is not.
Martha: "Well, I noticed on the back of your checkbook some numbers written. I thought you might need them."
Me: "What kind of numbers?" I am wondering if I have written a credit card number on the book of checks. I really have no idea.
Martha: "They look like phone numbers. One has CL written by it and one has SCH. I don't know what that means, but I was worried that you might need them."
I think for a moment, and then it dawns on me that Mr. Lincoln had written those phone numbers on the first piece of paper he could find, the checkbook, and they belonged to a teacher who wants to book a tour. Hmmmmmmmmmmm, I should have called her by now. Wonder why she doesn't reply to my emails instead of wanting to talk on the phone. Well, I do like to get caught up with her and her family each year.....a tap on my wandering mind, and I come back to Martha. "Oh, yes, Martha, I do need those numbers. You are the nicest person. Thank you so much."
Martha and I hang up, and I return to my painting. Painting is a solitary activity, and so the mind wanders....I wonder why Martha still had my checkbook....is she drying it out to use the checks....no, someone who fishes a checkbook out of a public toilet would not do that....a desperate person might...Mr. Lincoln is not going to be happy about this IF he ever finds out....oh, he won't really care, but maybe I should call Martha back and ask her the numbers on the checks, just in case this turns out like that fender bender...Mr. Lindoln really was not happy when I did not call the police after being rear-ended by a lovely young man in a company truck who begged me not to call the authorities because his boss would be really mad...yep, funny how "boss" was code for "the man who owns the business and from whom I stole this truck".....yeah, I better call Martha and get those check numbers... how will I get her number, not having caller ID...oh, I'll dial *69...that will work.
The phone is ringing. Martha answers. I begin apologizing for bothering her. She says she was worried that she had upset me with the second call. I am thinking what must I have sounded like to cause her to worry about my being upset with her...I really must work on my phone etiquette, how do I ask her for the check numbers without her feeling like I don't trust her, I know I'll blame it on Mr. Lincoln, he won't care...so I ask her for the numbers explaining that my husband, the attorney, will be much happier if he knows that I know what the numbers were on the checks that were flushed. She is very understanding. I thank her over and over. We bid each other fond farewells. I go back to my painting, and decide that perhaps I just will not leave the house again.
So for today I wish you a Martha guardian angel to look after you when you do stupid things, and I wish you
blessings
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Fragile, Handle with Care
This has been a hard week in some ways. Several friends have lost loved ones. Some of those deaths were sudden; some were at the end of a lengthy battle. It is sad to lose members of the previous generation in a family, no matter their age or health struggles. We miss them. Rarely, do I believe we have learned all that we might before they are gone.
I learned this week of a young mother, expecting a baby this fall. It is anticipated that the baby will live only a short while due to a chromosomal abnormality. It breaks my heart for everyone involved. I do not know this expectant mother, but I do know those who know her well. She and her husband have God-breathed strength, and I know they will survive this, but not before they experience great depths of sadness.
A friend suffered an aortic rupture Sunday night. One moment he was fine, and the next he was fighting for his life. Thanks to quick responses and excellent medical care, he is alive, and beginning the long journey of recovery.
Life is so fragile.
I love history. I do not particularly care for dates and battle strategies, but I love the personal stories. I love the reminders that there is nothing new under the sun. We do not suffer anything that has not been suffered time and time again. That is why I love stories of the past. They are reminders to me about the fragile nature of life on this earth. I visit old houses and hear stories of families who lived and worked and loved and died there, and I know they had the same hurts and joys and losses that I have.
They say we are all 3 or 4 generations from being totally forgotten. In some ways that is very troubling, but in other ways it is very comforting. I visit old cemeteries, and unless the person honored there is famous, all we have left is a stone with a name and dates to remind us that he or she lived. It is a reminder that none of us is indespensible to the running of the planet. When we depart this world the world will not miss a beat. If we are lucky, we will have influenced a handful of people who will care deeply at our departure from their lives, but even so, they will continue to wake up in the morning, laugh, love, sing, work, and enjoy their lives. Praise God for that.
When I walk at Radnor, I am struck by the ancient. Now, Radnor Lake as we know it today is not exactly ancient. If it is, then I am prehistoric, but the feel of the place reminds me that life was here long before I got here, and it will be here long after I leave. I find great comfort in that. When I sit by the Cumberland River I think how that river has been flowing and will continue to flow for generations. I think of families who navigated that river to escape the American Revolution and British oppression. They may have traveled in heavy flatboats with no electricity or other modern conveniences, but they loved their families, and they strove to provide for and protect them just like we all do. It is our common bond; that and the fragility of our lives.
Because life is so fragile, I think it behooves us to handle it with care. The really wise understand that they are not promised one more day; not even one more moment. It seems such a pity to waste our time stressed and complaining and bothered by the things that do not matter. Some people find this easier than others. Some embrace happiness regardless of circumstances. Those people do not let their sense of themselves and their lives be dictated by circumstances. As Abraham Lincoln, among others, said, "we're about as happy as we make up our minds to be." I respect the wisdom of the people I know who squeeze every moment of joy out of every day. And, I say "balderdash" to anyone who says these people are shallow or Pollyannas (meant in a derogatory manner - for I really do love Pollyanna). The joy-grabbers are not unaware of the troubles of this world, they just focus on the good. Actually, I find them to be far more aware than those who spend their lives in a "woe is me" posture.
I am acquainted with others who have adopted the victim mentality, and they see themselves as the victim in their own lives. Everything for them is so much more difficult. Life seems to "happen" to them. They tend to accentuate the negative and minimize the positive. I assume there are about as many different reasons for this mindset as there are people with this mindset. I think it would be a very hard place to be. I have no solution, yet it does seem a foolish place to stay.
Most of us are somewhere in the middle. But for all of us, life is fragile. We only have so many days to spend here. Maybe choosing a posture of joy and gratitude is the best possible way to handle that delicate gift with care.
For today, I wish you an appreciation for the gift of life, I wish you joy, I wish you a sense of gratitude for the gift, and I wish you
blessings
I learned this week of a young mother, expecting a baby this fall. It is anticipated that the baby will live only a short while due to a chromosomal abnormality. It breaks my heart for everyone involved. I do not know this expectant mother, but I do know those who know her well. She and her husband have God-breathed strength, and I know they will survive this, but not before they experience great depths of sadness.
A friend suffered an aortic rupture Sunday night. One moment he was fine, and the next he was fighting for his life. Thanks to quick responses and excellent medical care, he is alive, and beginning the long journey of recovery.
Life is so fragile.
I love history. I do not particularly care for dates and battle strategies, but I love the personal stories. I love the reminders that there is nothing new under the sun. We do not suffer anything that has not been suffered time and time again. That is why I love stories of the past. They are reminders to me about the fragile nature of life on this earth. I visit old houses and hear stories of families who lived and worked and loved and died there, and I know they had the same hurts and joys and losses that I have.
They say we are all 3 or 4 generations from being totally forgotten. In some ways that is very troubling, but in other ways it is very comforting. I visit old cemeteries, and unless the person honored there is famous, all we have left is a stone with a name and dates to remind us that he or she lived. It is a reminder that none of us is indespensible to the running of the planet. When we depart this world the world will not miss a beat. If we are lucky, we will have influenced a handful of people who will care deeply at our departure from their lives, but even so, they will continue to wake up in the morning, laugh, love, sing, work, and enjoy their lives. Praise God for that.
When I walk at Radnor, I am struck by the ancient. Now, Radnor Lake as we know it today is not exactly ancient. If it is, then I am prehistoric, but the feel of the place reminds me that life was here long before I got here, and it will be here long after I leave. I find great comfort in that. When I sit by the Cumberland River I think how that river has been flowing and will continue to flow for generations. I think of families who navigated that river to escape the American Revolution and British oppression. They may have traveled in heavy flatboats with no electricity or other modern conveniences, but they loved their families, and they strove to provide for and protect them just like we all do. It is our common bond; that and the fragility of our lives.
Because life is so fragile, I think it behooves us to handle it with care. The really wise understand that they are not promised one more day; not even one more moment. It seems such a pity to waste our time stressed and complaining and bothered by the things that do not matter. Some people find this easier than others. Some embrace happiness regardless of circumstances. Those people do not let their sense of themselves and their lives be dictated by circumstances. As Abraham Lincoln, among others, said, "we're about as happy as we make up our minds to be." I respect the wisdom of the people I know who squeeze every moment of joy out of every day. And, I say "balderdash" to anyone who says these people are shallow or Pollyannas (meant in a derogatory manner - for I really do love Pollyanna). The joy-grabbers are not unaware of the troubles of this world, they just focus on the good. Actually, I find them to be far more aware than those who spend their lives in a "woe is me" posture.
I am acquainted with others who have adopted the victim mentality, and they see themselves as the victim in their own lives. Everything for them is so much more difficult. Life seems to "happen" to them. They tend to accentuate the negative and minimize the positive. I assume there are about as many different reasons for this mindset as there are people with this mindset. I think it would be a very hard place to be. I have no solution, yet it does seem a foolish place to stay.
Most of us are somewhere in the middle. But for all of us, life is fragile. We only have so many days to spend here. Maybe choosing a posture of joy and gratitude is the best possible way to handle that delicate gift with care.
For today, I wish you an appreciation for the gift of life, I wish you joy, I wish you a sense of gratitude for the gift, and I wish you
blessings
Monday, September 10, 2012
Do You Realize That Was Your Own Nose?
I like to observe people around me. It is easier than having to look too hard at myself. In my observations, I notice how often people "cut off their own noses to spite their faces." You know, hurting yourself to punish someone else. It really makes no sense, and yet, we all do it.
Several years ago, Mr. Lincoln and I taught a marriage class. We had great fun preparing for and teaching that class. We learned a lot. I truly think teaching is the best way to learn. Mr. Lincoln and I had never been to marriage counseling. We had never even read a book on marriage before preparing for this class. We conducted our marriage about like we do everything - hanging by the seat of our pants, and taking most things neither personally nor seriously. I am not saying it is the right way, I'm just saying it has been our way.
In preparing for this class, I discovered some things. I learned that there were certain occasions at which I almost always "cut off my own nose." When we would go to a ballgame or concert, and it was time to head back to the car, I often found myself lost in the crowd, separated from Mr. Lincoln. He is a foot taller than I am, and so he is able to see the gaps in the crowd and hit them. He also has a much longer stride and moves faster. So, I lagged along behind feeling bereft and angry and appalled at my poor choice of such an inconsiderate husband. Of course, I did not tell him how I was feeling. I did not ask him to slow down. I just internally pouted. Should not he have known to wait for me and gently guide me with his hand on the small of my back? The least he could have done as he rapidly walked away was say, "stay alive...I will find you, no matter how long, no matter how far...stay alive!!" (If you don't get the reference, may I suggest a movie - The Last of the Mohicans) How utterly stupid of me.
I do not do that now. I hook my finger in his back belt loop, hang on for dear life, and choose to feel grateful for a husband a foot taller than I who can see the gaps in the crowd, hit them, and drag me through before they close. I feel so much better, and he does not drive us home wondering what is causing that cold breeze of hostility.
I know a wife who feels when she returns home from the grocery loaded down that she should not have to ask her husband for help bringing them into the house. Of course, it would be better if he looked up from ESPN to notice her with six bags of groceries hanging off each arm as she struggles to get in the door. That would be the ideal. But, history has told her that in this particular area he can be quite clueless. What does she do? Yep, just lops her own nose right off. She huffs and puffs and struggles to carry the groceries in an effort to punish him. I asked her once, "what does he do when you ask him to help you?" "Oh, he's happy to help. I just don't think I should have to ask him." Really? Does that make any sense? So, for the lack of asking a question, she stays mad at him all day for not helping her? I figure, like me, she deserves to be mad and upset. We bring it on ourselves.
Once I was talking to a friend whose husband has a tendency to "forget" things that are not all that important to him. They had an appointment to meet with someone. She made the appointment. He did not really want to go. When she adamantly told me that under no circumstance would she call him to remind him, I had a visual of her chopping off her nose. It seemed the end goal was for them to make this appointment together. By not reminding him, she was setting him up, and she was searching for, yet another, reason to be mad at him. Frankly, I think he was oblivious. His nose was intact. Hers was gone. I mean, that is like not reminding your husband of your anniversary or birthday because "he should remember," and being mad at him when he forgets. Me, I would rather get the gift. I'm just saying.
Living with someone who has confidence in his or her ability to make decisions and to accomplish tasks is a blessing. Living with someone who is always second-guessing you and themselves can be very tiring. I have watched relationships where one spouse is timid and so cautious about making decisions that they are very nearly paralyzed. Often the very same person who has no idea what they should do has a plethora of suggestions for others. It is a constant internal battle, and I imagine it can be quite a difficult thing with which to live for those on either side. Watching the confident member of the relationship refuse to compliment and truly encourage the other because "they should be able to do that for themselves," is like watching a nose-ectomy. I figure everybody wins when someone is encouraged to trust themselves. In my life I have learned that lectures, unsolicited advice, condemnations and such are far less effective than a word of praise or encouragement. Oh, I can still get wound up in a good what-you-need-to-do lecture, but for all the results of that, I might as well cut off my own nose.
Have you ever known someone who will not do what they really want to do because their husband or wife acts less than enthused? I am not talking about important decisions on how to spend large sums of money or how to raise the children or how to grow in faith. I am just talking about little things, like going somewhere, or eating something, or buying some small something. Frankly, I do not need Mr. Lincoln's enthusiasm to do something I want to do. It is nice, but I do not need it, nor does he need mine. Neither of us is about to lose a nose in an effort to punish the other. It just does not make sense. Do what you want to do if there is nothing wrong with it and no one will be harmed, and if someone chooses to be upset with you over it, let them deal with their own upset.
Well, there you have it, for what it is worth which if probably not much. But, that is the beauty of a blog. I can write it, and you do not have to read it.
For today, I wish your nose to remain well-placed, and I wish you
blessings
Several years ago, Mr. Lincoln and I taught a marriage class. We had great fun preparing for and teaching that class. We learned a lot. I truly think teaching is the best way to learn. Mr. Lincoln and I had never been to marriage counseling. We had never even read a book on marriage before preparing for this class. We conducted our marriage about like we do everything - hanging by the seat of our pants, and taking most things neither personally nor seriously. I am not saying it is the right way, I'm just saying it has been our way.
In preparing for this class, I discovered some things. I learned that there were certain occasions at which I almost always "cut off my own nose." When we would go to a ballgame or concert, and it was time to head back to the car, I often found myself lost in the crowd, separated from Mr. Lincoln. He is a foot taller than I am, and so he is able to see the gaps in the crowd and hit them. He also has a much longer stride and moves faster. So, I lagged along behind feeling bereft and angry and appalled at my poor choice of such an inconsiderate husband. Of course, I did not tell him how I was feeling. I did not ask him to slow down. I just internally pouted. Should not he have known to wait for me and gently guide me with his hand on the small of my back? The least he could have done as he rapidly walked away was say, "stay alive...I will find you, no matter how long, no matter how far...stay alive!!" (If you don't get the reference, may I suggest a movie - The Last of the Mohicans) How utterly stupid of me.
I do not do that now. I hook my finger in his back belt loop, hang on for dear life, and choose to feel grateful for a husband a foot taller than I who can see the gaps in the crowd, hit them, and drag me through before they close. I feel so much better, and he does not drive us home wondering what is causing that cold breeze of hostility.
I know a wife who feels when she returns home from the grocery loaded down that she should not have to ask her husband for help bringing them into the house. Of course, it would be better if he looked up from ESPN to notice her with six bags of groceries hanging off each arm as she struggles to get in the door. That would be the ideal. But, history has told her that in this particular area he can be quite clueless. What does she do? Yep, just lops her own nose right off. She huffs and puffs and struggles to carry the groceries in an effort to punish him. I asked her once, "what does he do when you ask him to help you?" "Oh, he's happy to help. I just don't think I should have to ask him." Really? Does that make any sense? So, for the lack of asking a question, she stays mad at him all day for not helping her? I figure, like me, she deserves to be mad and upset. We bring it on ourselves.
Once I was talking to a friend whose husband has a tendency to "forget" things that are not all that important to him. They had an appointment to meet with someone. She made the appointment. He did not really want to go. When she adamantly told me that under no circumstance would she call him to remind him, I had a visual of her chopping off her nose. It seemed the end goal was for them to make this appointment together. By not reminding him, she was setting him up, and she was searching for, yet another, reason to be mad at him. Frankly, I think he was oblivious. His nose was intact. Hers was gone. I mean, that is like not reminding your husband of your anniversary or birthday because "he should remember," and being mad at him when he forgets. Me, I would rather get the gift. I'm just saying.
Living with someone who has confidence in his or her ability to make decisions and to accomplish tasks is a blessing. Living with someone who is always second-guessing you and themselves can be very tiring. I have watched relationships where one spouse is timid and so cautious about making decisions that they are very nearly paralyzed. Often the very same person who has no idea what they should do has a plethora of suggestions for others. It is a constant internal battle, and I imagine it can be quite a difficult thing with which to live for those on either side. Watching the confident member of the relationship refuse to compliment and truly encourage the other because "they should be able to do that for themselves," is like watching a nose-ectomy. I figure everybody wins when someone is encouraged to trust themselves. In my life I have learned that lectures, unsolicited advice, condemnations and such are far less effective than a word of praise or encouragement. Oh, I can still get wound up in a good what-you-need-to-do lecture, but for all the results of that, I might as well cut off my own nose.
Have you ever known someone who will not do what they really want to do because their husband or wife acts less than enthused? I am not talking about important decisions on how to spend large sums of money or how to raise the children or how to grow in faith. I am just talking about little things, like going somewhere, or eating something, or buying some small something. Frankly, I do not need Mr. Lincoln's enthusiasm to do something I want to do. It is nice, but I do not need it, nor does he need mine. Neither of us is about to lose a nose in an effort to punish the other. It just does not make sense. Do what you want to do if there is nothing wrong with it and no one will be harmed, and if someone chooses to be upset with you over it, let them deal with their own upset.
Well, there you have it, for what it is worth which if probably not much. But, that is the beauty of a blog. I can write it, and you do not have to read it.
For today, I wish your nose to remain well-placed, and I wish you
blessings
Friday, August 24, 2012
Please, Enough Already
I am so sick and tired of all the political talk and bashing and trashing. Can I get an amen? I get that some people do not like President Obama. I get that you think he is an illegal alien, Muslim, spendthrift that is destroying our country. I get that some of you do not like Mitt Romney because you think he is a polygamous, descendant of illegal aliens, hater of the downtrodden. But, please is there not something else we can talk about?
I do not watch the news nor read the newspaper (except on Sundays) for a reason. I mean, seriously, how much of what we read or hear is even true? By the time the spin doctors have operated on comments and actions, there is very little original left; sort of like Joan Rivers' face.
I have missed voting in very few elections since I became a registered voter, which was the very first day I was of age. I am most grateful for the freedom to vote for whomever I wish. I am most grateful to live in a country where we can verbally trash our elected officials, but just because we can does not mean we should.
I have friends who are rabid Republicans. I have friends who are rabid Democrats. I have friends who try to vote for the person, not the party. Sometimes that vote is cast for someone who they feel will do a great job, sometimes they vote for the least objectionable candidate. I do not know who is right. Maybe none of them are right and none of them are wrong. I do not know. But, I do know that this barrage of vitriolic talk is not productive....for anyone.
The media love to pick up some not-too-bright comment a candidate makes and blow it all out of proportion. I know the guy that made the comment about "legitimate rape not causing pregnancy" sounds like an imbecile, but I am fairly certain that not everything he says is so out of step with good sense. When it was on the news it made me consider how many stupid things I say, but, fortunately, they are not recorded and played and replayed. I remember one time in Humanities Class in high school when our teacher said that before Jesus was born (yeah, folks, public high school) Mary and Joseph had "not known each other." In all my church of Christ, Bible believing, arrogance, I piped up, "of course they knew each other - they were engaged!!" Duh! Ah, but then, I was struck by the Spirit with an understanding of what exactly the teacher meant. I was in Junior Humanities Class - considered the "advanced" class. Bet Mrs. Miller was wondering what in world I was doing in there. It was a stupid statement, spoken from misunderstanding, but it did not make me a bad person. It made me look stupid, really stupid, for a few minutes. It embarrassed me to no end (here I am 43 years later remembering it), but I was not ostracized because of it.
We just love watching replays of politicians falling down plane steps or hitting someone in the head with a golf ball. It makes us feel so superior to watch it and think to ourselves or say out loud, "what a doofus." What a hypocrite I am when I do that. Every time I watch people enjoy the discomfort or misstep of someone else, I think of a few of the many stupid things I have done. I mean, one day at Opryland, I let the goats out of their pen. I did not mean to. I remain convinced that as I opened the gate to pet the little darlings that the big one seized the opportunity. In some goat sign language he told the little ones to escape as he wedged his head so that I could not close the gate. They came running out, and they were not interested in just seeing the petting zoo beyond their little area; no sir, they wanted to see the entire park, and run for freedom they did. I stood screaming in a high screechy voice, "Kenny, Kenny" to Mr. Lincoln who was no help as he could barely respond because of his laughter. Let me add, that his offspring were no help either as they bent double in hysteria. You want to talk mortification? I was totally mortified. Could I have looked any more dumb? I do not think so, but it is not the first thing people think of when they see me.
I wonder why we always want to assign poor motives to people's actions as well. We are so quick to accuse and so slow to give the benefit of the doubt, especially the politicians of the "other" party. Of course, I am sure there are some of them who have wicked motives for actions, but I am equally certain that some of them get blamed for actions and words for which they have no responsibility. Once, Mr. Lincoln and our children were at the balloon glow at Percy Warner Park. It was quite the spectacle; dozens of hot air balloons being fired up. The glow of all the colors was spectacular. In the park, facilities are few and far between, so they had a row of port-a-potties in the field near the balloons. I found it necessary to visit one of those. There was a line in front of each one. I picked a line. The gentleman in front of me went in, and I patiently awaited his vacating the premises. Well, apparently, the door became stuck. Standing outside, I could hear his exclamations of dismay as he tried to open the door. He began to put a bit more force into his efforts resulting in the port-a-potty rocking to and fro. From the monologue I was hearing through the door, it seems that a bit of the contents in the facility splashed up on this gentleman. I will admit, that I perversely found some humor in the situation, but I was not laughing uproariously as he finally got the door open and disembarked. Well, apparently, for some completely unknown reason, this man thought that I was holding the door so that he could not get out. This man I had never met. He began to yell at me, in front of lots of people, including my hero, Mr. Lincoln, who by that time was laughing uproariously in the ludicrousness of him thinking I was holding the door so he could not get out. There was no convincing that man. I imagine there were others around who were convinced that I was holding the door. But, trust me, I was not.
So, please, people, give it a rest. We all look like stupid, mean-spirited, doofuses at some time or the other. I have to wonder if it really makes any difference who we elect any way. There can be talk about bipartisanship, but very few elected officials as well as voters really want that. We are all too busy wanting to be superior, and wanting our party to look good. Face it. Neither of them looks good. I'll definitely vote in the presidential election. I have made a pact with myself that I refuse to vote for anyone from whom I get a canned campaign phone call that starts out with a 2 second delay after I answer. And, heaven help them if they call while I am rocking a baby and that child is awakened. Not only will that person NOT get my vote, but I WILL vote for his/her opponent. Yep, I think that's how I'll decide who to vote for. I figure it is as good a way as any.
So for today, I wish you brilliance, poise, and understanding from your fellow man, and if that fails, I wish you
blessings
I do not watch the news nor read the newspaper (except on Sundays) for a reason. I mean, seriously, how much of what we read or hear is even true? By the time the spin doctors have operated on comments and actions, there is very little original left; sort of like Joan Rivers' face.
I have missed voting in very few elections since I became a registered voter, which was the very first day I was of age. I am most grateful for the freedom to vote for whomever I wish. I am most grateful to live in a country where we can verbally trash our elected officials, but just because we can does not mean we should.
I have friends who are rabid Republicans. I have friends who are rabid Democrats. I have friends who try to vote for the person, not the party. Sometimes that vote is cast for someone who they feel will do a great job, sometimes they vote for the least objectionable candidate. I do not know who is right. Maybe none of them are right and none of them are wrong. I do not know. But, I do know that this barrage of vitriolic talk is not productive....for anyone.
The media love to pick up some not-too-bright comment a candidate makes and blow it all out of proportion. I know the guy that made the comment about "legitimate rape not causing pregnancy" sounds like an imbecile, but I am fairly certain that not everything he says is so out of step with good sense. When it was on the news it made me consider how many stupid things I say, but, fortunately, they are not recorded and played and replayed. I remember one time in Humanities Class in high school when our teacher said that before Jesus was born (yeah, folks, public high school) Mary and Joseph had "not known each other." In all my church of Christ, Bible believing, arrogance, I piped up, "of course they knew each other - they were engaged!!" Duh! Ah, but then, I was struck by the Spirit with an understanding of what exactly the teacher meant. I was in Junior Humanities Class - considered the "advanced" class. Bet Mrs. Miller was wondering what in world I was doing in there. It was a stupid statement, spoken from misunderstanding, but it did not make me a bad person. It made me look stupid, really stupid, for a few minutes. It embarrassed me to no end (here I am 43 years later remembering it), but I was not ostracized because of it.
We just love watching replays of politicians falling down plane steps or hitting someone in the head with a golf ball. It makes us feel so superior to watch it and think to ourselves or say out loud, "what a doofus." What a hypocrite I am when I do that. Every time I watch people enjoy the discomfort or misstep of someone else, I think of a few of the many stupid things I have done. I mean, one day at Opryland, I let the goats out of their pen. I did not mean to. I remain convinced that as I opened the gate to pet the little darlings that the big one seized the opportunity. In some goat sign language he told the little ones to escape as he wedged his head so that I could not close the gate. They came running out, and they were not interested in just seeing the petting zoo beyond their little area; no sir, they wanted to see the entire park, and run for freedom they did. I stood screaming in a high screechy voice, "Kenny, Kenny" to Mr. Lincoln who was no help as he could barely respond because of his laughter. Let me add, that his offspring were no help either as they bent double in hysteria. You want to talk mortification? I was totally mortified. Could I have looked any more dumb? I do not think so, but it is not the first thing people think of when they see me.
I wonder why we always want to assign poor motives to people's actions as well. We are so quick to accuse and so slow to give the benefit of the doubt, especially the politicians of the "other" party. Of course, I am sure there are some of them who have wicked motives for actions, but I am equally certain that some of them get blamed for actions and words for which they have no responsibility. Once, Mr. Lincoln and our children were at the balloon glow at Percy Warner Park. It was quite the spectacle; dozens of hot air balloons being fired up. The glow of all the colors was spectacular. In the park, facilities are few and far between, so they had a row of port-a-potties in the field near the balloons. I found it necessary to visit one of those. There was a line in front of each one. I picked a line. The gentleman in front of me went in, and I patiently awaited his vacating the premises. Well, apparently, the door became stuck. Standing outside, I could hear his exclamations of dismay as he tried to open the door. He began to put a bit more force into his efforts resulting in the port-a-potty rocking to and fro. From the monologue I was hearing through the door, it seems that a bit of the contents in the facility splashed up on this gentleman. I will admit, that I perversely found some humor in the situation, but I was not laughing uproariously as he finally got the door open and disembarked. Well, apparently, for some completely unknown reason, this man thought that I was holding the door so that he could not get out. This man I had never met. He began to yell at me, in front of lots of people, including my hero, Mr. Lincoln, who by that time was laughing uproariously in the ludicrousness of him thinking I was holding the door so he could not get out. There was no convincing that man. I imagine there were others around who were convinced that I was holding the door. But, trust me, I was not.
So, please, people, give it a rest. We all look like stupid, mean-spirited, doofuses at some time or the other. I have to wonder if it really makes any difference who we elect any way. There can be talk about bipartisanship, but very few elected officials as well as voters really want that. We are all too busy wanting to be superior, and wanting our party to look good. Face it. Neither of them looks good. I'll definitely vote in the presidential election. I have made a pact with myself that I refuse to vote for anyone from whom I get a canned campaign phone call that starts out with a 2 second delay after I answer. And, heaven help them if they call while I am rocking a baby and that child is awakened. Not only will that person NOT get my vote, but I WILL vote for his/her opponent. Yep, I think that's how I'll decide who to vote for. I figure it is as good a way as any.
So for today, I wish you brilliance, poise, and understanding from your fellow man, and if that fails, I wish you
blessings
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Signposts
Recently, as I have been observing different people who cross my path, it occurred to me that we are all signposts. We may not mean to be. We may not want to be, but we are all pointing others in some direction. The knowledge that people are watching us, and are often using us as a guideline is very humbling, and comes with a great deal of responsibility.
I want to share a few signposts that I have encountered in the past few days. I have a friend who after jumping from a cliff into a lake burst a vertebrae; a very serious injury that required extensive surgery and rehab. She is young and active; an obvious daredevil. Her life and the lives of her husband and children, have been abruptly interrupted. As signposts, they could have sent those of us watching in the direction of "why did this terrible thing happen to me?" But, they have not. They have guided us to a place of blessing. They have shared, honestly, the pain, the fear, the trials, but through it all, they have shared the joys and lessons and blessings that have come from this time of stress. Their children will always remember this event in their lives. They will always remember the love that has been shown their family. They will always remember the sacrifice their grandmother has graciously and, yes, gratefully made to keep their lives running as smoothly as possible. Those children will always remember their parents' laughter through dismay, their strength in their weakness, and the beautiful embodiment of marriage vows, "in sickness and in health," being played out. Little has been said, but these signposts' directions are clear.
Prayer is a mighty vehicle. Not long ago, I was talking with a friend who has been concerned about a relative who she feels drinks too much alcohol too often. She has prayed and prayed that the Lord would guide her kin to a better place. Her prayer was answered. The answer did not fit any script that she would have written. Her relative was picked up for DUI. There are many different ways my friend could have viewed this. Of course, she is terribly concerned. Of course, she dreads thinking of the legal consequences of the arrest. Not once in our conversation did she moan and wail. She did say we need to be careful about what we pray for because God answers prayer. She sees this as a wake-up call. She will suffer anxiety and fear concerning the paying of those consequences. But, she will not rail against God. She will pray for safekeeping for the one she loves. She exhibits trust and faith. There is no confusion about which direction her signpost points.
This past week I had occasion to meet with a group of women. Most of them are girls to me. They are the ages of my children. I watch them, and I learn. We gathered to show our support for one who is facing a very difficult marriage situation. Her husband and the father of her small children has decided that he does not want to do this marriage thing right now. Maybe, he is thinking he does not want to do it ever again. He has hurt people. He has. His signpost is askew, and has taken to pointing in the wrong direction. I am confident that God will never stop pursuing him and tugging on his heartstrings. I am confident of that, but at the moment, this hurting young man has left a wake of pain in his path. The poise and love and dignity that I see displayed in this young wife and mother takes my breath away. As we talked with her and prayed for her, her every concern was for this husband who no longer wants to be and her precious children. She displayed not an ounce of bitterness, resentment, nor anger at him. She is not denying the pain and fear and uncertainty. She is choosing the route of mercy and grace and hope and forgiveness. The direction in which her signpost points is clear-cut.
So, for all you people out there who struggle to do the right thing. For every husband who comes home every night, for every dad who does a job he does not particularly like to provide for his family, for every mother who works at home and away from home, for every teacher who struggles to teach life lessons to students, for every policeman who shows empathy for suffering souls who cross their paths, for every person who bears up under stress and chooses a path of joy and service and a "life is NOT all about me" attitude, for every person who grants others the right to make their own decisions without micro-managing, for every person who chooses the best route when a not-too-bad one would work, for every person who accepts and embraces the differences in people and still gracefully stands up for his or her beliefs in love, for every person who lives within the parameters of a well-proven value system, for every person whose word is their bond and who can be counted on to do what they say when they say it, thank you. You are steady signposts. You may feel under appreciated, but people are watching and following. Do not waver. We are counting on you.
blessings,
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Happy New Year
The title of this post may seem a bit anachronistic, but for many, this is the time of the new year more real than January 1 as suggested by our calendar. A friends' post on FB, the back-to-school blessing at church, and increased traffic are just a few of the events that got me thinking about this start of a new year. I remember those starts as a student, as a teacher, as a parent sending my children off, and now as someone who works with teachers and students. There is something so marvelous about a fresh start.
I just love the smell of newly sharpened pencils. You know the ones that still have a whole eraser. A yellow number 2 pencil is an appropo metaphor for fresh starts. I remember organizing my new blue 3-ring binders with fresh notebook paper, making sure my name and phone number were written properly in case it got lost. In elementary school there was very little as exciting as opening a new box of crayons. Poor Mr. Lincoln, all he ever had was a box of 8. When we could afford it, I always had the box of 64 with "built in sharpener." I can conjure up that fragrance in my mind as I sit at my computer. Oh, and I could not wait to get a fresh, never-opened, bottle of Elmer's Glue. It was never the same after it had been used because there was always dried residue on the cap and stopping up the hole. Did you ever cover your palms with the glue, let it dry, then peel it off? I loved (love) doing that.
I remember tours of the school so we would know where the office, cafeteria, and most importantly, the bathrooms were. It is always good to know where the bathrooms are. I can name every teacher I had at Dalewood Elementary school. 1st grade, Mrs. McPherson (both my older brothers had her); 2nd Miss Williams (she was young and beautiful and, if my memory serves, loved literature); 3rd Mrs. Trowbridge (she was tough, and I sat behind Howard Humble who had warts on his fingers); 4th Mrs. Gerow (she pronounced my name "myrilyn"); 5th and 6th Mrs. Simpson (she was a trip). Other support staff at Dalewood included Mrs. Melin the librarian who lived up the street, Mrs. White the P.E. teacher who weighed about 800 pounds, and our chorus teacher whose name I cannot remember but who taught us songs from "Oklahoma." I am still known to burst out in song with "Oooooooooooooaklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain," or "chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, when I take you out in my surrey." Ah, great memories.
Sometimes, however, the first of a new year can be very daunting. I remember my first day of first grade. For some reason, my daddy was the one who took me. That is probably because my oldest brother was at a different school and Mom took him. I was sort of (understatement) a Daddy's girl, so maybe it was because I begged him to. I do not know, I just know he is who took me. I remember what I had on. It was a grey jumper with black kettles printed on the fabric, and a white blouse. I was a bit apprehensive as I watched Daddy leave. Little did I know that I was about to begin some of my best and longest-lasting friendships there in Mrs. McPherson's first grade class. It was the start of a new year; a new year that brought about many adventures like learning to read, and how to jump rope, and how to stand in line, and how to order lunches in the cafeteria...just lots of important stuff.
I only attended 3 schools in my pre-collegiate days. They were, as mentioned, Dalewood Elementary, Litton Junior High, and Isaac Litton Senior High. There were many people with whom I attended first through twelfth grades. Seventh grade is the only other year where I remember my first day. Oh, my word, talk about trauma. First of all, I wore a red and olive plaid skirt with an olive shirt both of which I made that summer while learning to sew from Mrs. Gilliam. I can still hear her voice, "we do not want our darts to have puckers." The skirt and blouse were okay, but, alas, I also had on bobby socks. No, I was not in 7th grade in the 50's, and so, bobby socks were not in vogue. My mother had informed me that "nice girls do not wear hose to school." The other girls in the 7th grade at Litton Junior High in 1964 were apparently all harlots except for Becky Leech and me. Sadly, the majority of the student body defined things differently than my mother, and so they mistakenly thought of Becky and me as dorks rather than seeing the failed morals of all those other girls in hose with pink nail polish on them to stop the runs. I was always envious of those nail-polished stockings. Then, to compound the drama of that first day I had Mr. Crockett, not Mrs. Cassidy which was not what I had been told. Seriously, only a dork in bobby socks would have had her mother move her from the handsome Mr. Crockett's room to the very tough, very school marmish Mrs. Cassidy's, but, yes, that is what I did.
There are other new year days I remember. The day my brother, Mike, started his senior year at Litton. Mike had been a bit "adventurous" in school, and sometimes found himself in hot water - translated suspended - but this, his senior year, was going to be different. My mother was explaining this to her best friend as they chatted over a morning cup of coffee in our kitchen. Mom, brimming over with enthusiasm over this new leaf Mike had turned over, describing to Maxine how nice he looked when he left for school, how optimistic she was that this was going to be his year. In the middle of the conversation, the phone rang. It was the school principal. Mike had just been suspended for smoking behind the band room. What's a mom to do?
I remember the new year that Marshall began the two year old class at Otter Creek. He had his little bag with his name on it, dressed in little khaki shorts with a red, navy and khaki knit shirt. His hair was brushed. His face was bright and shiny. "Miss" Jan was driving carpool that morning, taking Franklin and Marshall off for their first day with "Miss" Eva. As he waved goodbye to me, he fell down the front steps managing to get a scrape, a cut, and a gouge in that one fall. Happy new year, Marsh. I fear it set the tone for all of school for him.
The last new year day I remember was when MP went off to Georgia to college. She and I were talking about that today and it ranks only a half step below her life's absolute worst day so far. We took all her belongings, set them up in her dorm room. We rearranged, changed this, checked out that, dragging our heels, desperately not wanting to leave her. But, the time arrived that we had to say good-by, leave her in Athens, and drive home. Oh, it makes me sick to my stomach to think about. We left her, at her request, in a basically empty dorm a week before classes began. During the five hour drive home, there was not one moment when either Mr. Lincoln, or I, or both of us were not crying. Sadly, back at the dorm, I think MP was shedding tears well beyond those 5 hours. Georgia turned out to be great and wonderful for her, but that day of the new year was agonizing.
So happy new year to all you students, teachers, administrators, cafeteria workers, janitors, bus drivers, and parents. I wish you all a great new year filled with new adventures, new friends, new things to learn, and I wish you
blessings
I just love the smell of newly sharpened pencils. You know the ones that still have a whole eraser. A yellow number 2 pencil is an appropo metaphor for fresh starts. I remember organizing my new blue 3-ring binders with fresh notebook paper, making sure my name and phone number were written properly in case it got lost. In elementary school there was very little as exciting as opening a new box of crayons. Poor Mr. Lincoln, all he ever had was a box of 8. When we could afford it, I always had the box of 64 with "built in sharpener." I can conjure up that fragrance in my mind as I sit at my computer. Oh, and I could not wait to get a fresh, never-opened, bottle of Elmer's Glue. It was never the same after it had been used because there was always dried residue on the cap and stopping up the hole. Did you ever cover your palms with the glue, let it dry, then peel it off? I loved (love) doing that.
I remember tours of the school so we would know where the office, cafeteria, and most importantly, the bathrooms were. It is always good to know where the bathrooms are. I can name every teacher I had at Dalewood Elementary school. 1st grade, Mrs. McPherson (both my older brothers had her); 2nd Miss Williams (she was young and beautiful and, if my memory serves, loved literature); 3rd Mrs. Trowbridge (she was tough, and I sat behind Howard Humble who had warts on his fingers); 4th Mrs. Gerow (she pronounced my name "myrilyn"); 5th and 6th Mrs. Simpson (she was a trip). Other support staff at Dalewood included Mrs. Melin the librarian who lived up the street, Mrs. White the P.E. teacher who weighed about 800 pounds, and our chorus teacher whose name I cannot remember but who taught us songs from "Oklahoma." I am still known to burst out in song with "Oooooooooooooaklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain," or "chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, when I take you out in my surrey." Ah, great memories.
Sometimes, however, the first of a new year can be very daunting. I remember my first day of first grade. For some reason, my daddy was the one who took me. That is probably because my oldest brother was at a different school and Mom took him. I was sort of (understatement) a Daddy's girl, so maybe it was because I begged him to. I do not know, I just know he is who took me. I remember what I had on. It was a grey jumper with black kettles printed on the fabric, and a white blouse. I was a bit apprehensive as I watched Daddy leave. Little did I know that I was about to begin some of my best and longest-lasting friendships there in Mrs. McPherson's first grade class. It was the start of a new year; a new year that brought about many adventures like learning to read, and how to jump rope, and how to stand in line, and how to order lunches in the cafeteria...just lots of important stuff.
I only attended 3 schools in my pre-collegiate days. They were, as mentioned, Dalewood Elementary, Litton Junior High, and Isaac Litton Senior High. There were many people with whom I attended first through twelfth grades. Seventh grade is the only other year where I remember my first day. Oh, my word, talk about trauma. First of all, I wore a red and olive plaid skirt with an olive shirt both of which I made that summer while learning to sew from Mrs. Gilliam. I can still hear her voice, "we do not want our darts to have puckers." The skirt and blouse were okay, but, alas, I also had on bobby socks. No, I was not in 7th grade in the 50's, and so, bobby socks were not in vogue. My mother had informed me that "nice girls do not wear hose to school." The other girls in the 7th grade at Litton Junior High in 1964 were apparently all harlots except for Becky Leech and me. Sadly, the majority of the student body defined things differently than my mother, and so they mistakenly thought of Becky and me as dorks rather than seeing the failed morals of all those other girls in hose with pink nail polish on them to stop the runs. I was always envious of those nail-polished stockings. Then, to compound the drama of that first day I had Mr. Crockett, not Mrs. Cassidy which was not what I had been told. Seriously, only a dork in bobby socks would have had her mother move her from the handsome Mr. Crockett's room to the very tough, very school marmish Mrs. Cassidy's, but, yes, that is what I did.
There are other new year days I remember. The day my brother, Mike, started his senior year at Litton. Mike had been a bit "adventurous" in school, and sometimes found himself in hot water - translated suspended - but this, his senior year, was going to be different. My mother was explaining this to her best friend as they chatted over a morning cup of coffee in our kitchen. Mom, brimming over with enthusiasm over this new leaf Mike had turned over, describing to Maxine how nice he looked when he left for school, how optimistic she was that this was going to be his year. In the middle of the conversation, the phone rang. It was the school principal. Mike had just been suspended for smoking behind the band room. What's a mom to do?
I remember the new year that Marshall began the two year old class at Otter Creek. He had his little bag with his name on it, dressed in little khaki shorts with a red, navy and khaki knit shirt. His hair was brushed. His face was bright and shiny. "Miss" Jan was driving carpool that morning, taking Franklin and Marshall off for their first day with "Miss" Eva. As he waved goodbye to me, he fell down the front steps managing to get a scrape, a cut, and a gouge in that one fall. Happy new year, Marsh. I fear it set the tone for all of school for him.
The last new year day I remember was when MP went off to Georgia to college. She and I were talking about that today and it ranks only a half step below her life's absolute worst day so far. We took all her belongings, set them up in her dorm room. We rearranged, changed this, checked out that, dragging our heels, desperately not wanting to leave her. But, the time arrived that we had to say good-by, leave her in Athens, and drive home. Oh, it makes me sick to my stomach to think about. We left her, at her request, in a basically empty dorm a week before classes began. During the five hour drive home, there was not one moment when either Mr. Lincoln, or I, or both of us were not crying. Sadly, back at the dorm, I think MP was shedding tears well beyond those 5 hours. Georgia turned out to be great and wonderful for her, but that day of the new year was agonizing.
So happy new year to all you students, teachers, administrators, cafeteria workers, janitors, bus drivers, and parents. I wish you all a great new year filled with new adventures, new friends, new things to learn, and I wish you
blessings
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Changes in Attitude
When my children were young, sometimes they would grumble if I told them to do something they really did not want to do. Often, I would tell them that they had no choice in the doing, but they could choose if they would do it with a bad attitude or a good attitude. They probably did not like that much, but I do believe it. I will be interested in seeing if they say something similar to their own children. When you think about it, our attitudes are incredibly important in molding the way we look at life and at ourselves.
I have been churched this weekend. It was a mighty "churching." Saturday, I attended a brunch for the women's fellowship. I enjoy women's fellowship events, but I tend to gravitate toward people that I already know. Basically, I am extremely shy. It is so uncomfortable for me to talk to people I do not know. Of the six women seated at my table, I did not know two of them. One of them is very quiet, or at least she was yesterday, but when she spoke, her words were thoughtful and wise. She made the connection that she works with my daughter, and she is the photographer who took both my grandsons' newborn pictures. Certainly, I knew her by reputation, and have her handiwork framed in two rooms in my house. It was lovely to put a face to the name.
The other woman at my table, I had heard of, but did not really know. At her own admission, in the past she made some bad choices, and got her life off track. That is actually how I heard of her the first time. Several years ago, her cousin asked for prayers on her behalf. Someone else at our table, when the admission of bad choices was stated, said, "look at all the good choices you are making now." Sometimes, that is just not the response from people. Some people tend to hold others down by reminding them of their mistakes. I am so grateful to go to a church where the majority of people just do not do that. Heaven knows, we all need a little mercy all the time.
I was struck as this young woman spoke a bit of her mistakes. She was so careful to never blame anyone, not even herself. Yes, she took responsibility for her choices, but she is not walking around with a load of guilt blaming herself. Guilt is the most versatile tool in Satan's toolbox. Yes, we all need to admit when we are wrong, and we need to repent, but then be done with it. I might add that repenting does not mean saying we are sorry, and then continuing the behavior. That is just smoke and balderdash, and eventually comes to mean absolutely nothing to those to whom we apologize. It becomes evident with one hollow apology after the other that there is no truth there.
I appreciated the attitudes of love and kindness and compassion and gratitude expressed at that table. Not one person at that table lacked life experiences about which they could have complained and groused. Not one. But, each and every one knew the better choice was to face life with the best attitude possible.
Today was an amazing day. That "cute" Jason about whom I blogged last week, led our worship. It was outstanding. Of course, I really love Jason and his wife, and so I will always have a good attitude about his leadership. We have been in a series at church called, "Can I Get a Witness." It has been one good lesson after the other. Today was better than good. Again, the woman who gave her witness is a friend for whom I have great love and respect. She has had a lot of pain and sorrow, but she chooses an attitude of joy. She does not blame anyone for her trials. She realizes that some of what she has had to bear has been the result of another's choices, but she stresses there must be no blame directed at the other person. She wants no sides taken, no negative comments made. She also claims no credit for her ability to get through the fire and rise up refined. She knows that it is God in her. This woman has the most beautiful countenance. She has chosen an attitude of gratitude and peace, even as she still suffers.
Following our service, we were blessed with the witnessing of two baptisms. I thought how that might seem like such a ridiculous ritual to some. What possible purpose can be served by dunking people under water? What is it that brings tears to our eyes and happiness in our hearts? I think for me, it is just that wonder of looking around that room, and seeing so many people for whom that act of baptism is so important. I truly think we have gotten beyond the point in thinking that if you have not been dunked then you have not been saved. It is not about the dunking. It is about the attitude of accepting a beautiful gift, of telling the world, "I want to give my allegiance to Jesus. I want to be part of this thing called Church."
So, I have been churched this weekend. For some, that sounds like a terrible nightmare. For me, it is a lovely respite in the week. Yes, there is junk there. Yes, there are flaws. Yes, there are the misguided. Yes, there are the stubborn. Yes, there are the gossips. Yes, there is unforgiveness in the hearts of some. Yes, there are those who are bitter. Yes, there are those who hang on to the bad, and find it hard to see the good. But, I want to be there. It is my best chance to see the love and kindness and acceptance and joy and genuine concern the Father has for us all, and, yes, I do mean all mankind. It is the place I can go for an attitude adjustment.
So, for today, I wish you a change in attitude if you need it. I wish you an abundant life of joy and peace. I wish you Church, or church, however you want to think of it. And, I wish you
blessings
I have been churched this weekend. It was a mighty "churching." Saturday, I attended a brunch for the women's fellowship. I enjoy women's fellowship events, but I tend to gravitate toward people that I already know. Basically, I am extremely shy. It is so uncomfortable for me to talk to people I do not know. Of the six women seated at my table, I did not know two of them. One of them is very quiet, or at least she was yesterday, but when she spoke, her words were thoughtful and wise. She made the connection that she works with my daughter, and she is the photographer who took both my grandsons' newborn pictures. Certainly, I knew her by reputation, and have her handiwork framed in two rooms in my house. It was lovely to put a face to the name.
The other woman at my table, I had heard of, but did not really know. At her own admission, in the past she made some bad choices, and got her life off track. That is actually how I heard of her the first time. Several years ago, her cousin asked for prayers on her behalf. Someone else at our table, when the admission of bad choices was stated, said, "look at all the good choices you are making now." Sometimes, that is just not the response from people. Some people tend to hold others down by reminding them of their mistakes. I am so grateful to go to a church where the majority of people just do not do that. Heaven knows, we all need a little mercy all the time.
I was struck as this young woman spoke a bit of her mistakes. She was so careful to never blame anyone, not even herself. Yes, she took responsibility for her choices, but she is not walking around with a load of guilt blaming herself. Guilt is the most versatile tool in Satan's toolbox. Yes, we all need to admit when we are wrong, and we need to repent, but then be done with it. I might add that repenting does not mean saying we are sorry, and then continuing the behavior. That is just smoke and balderdash, and eventually comes to mean absolutely nothing to those to whom we apologize. It becomes evident with one hollow apology after the other that there is no truth there.
I appreciated the attitudes of love and kindness and compassion and gratitude expressed at that table. Not one person at that table lacked life experiences about which they could have complained and groused. Not one. But, each and every one knew the better choice was to face life with the best attitude possible.
Today was an amazing day. That "cute" Jason about whom I blogged last week, led our worship. It was outstanding. Of course, I really love Jason and his wife, and so I will always have a good attitude about his leadership. We have been in a series at church called, "Can I Get a Witness." It has been one good lesson after the other. Today was better than good. Again, the woman who gave her witness is a friend for whom I have great love and respect. She has had a lot of pain and sorrow, but she chooses an attitude of joy. She does not blame anyone for her trials. She realizes that some of what she has had to bear has been the result of another's choices, but she stresses there must be no blame directed at the other person. She wants no sides taken, no negative comments made. She also claims no credit for her ability to get through the fire and rise up refined. She knows that it is God in her. This woman has the most beautiful countenance. She has chosen an attitude of gratitude and peace, even as she still suffers.
Following our service, we were blessed with the witnessing of two baptisms. I thought how that might seem like such a ridiculous ritual to some. What possible purpose can be served by dunking people under water? What is it that brings tears to our eyes and happiness in our hearts? I think for me, it is just that wonder of looking around that room, and seeing so many people for whom that act of baptism is so important. I truly think we have gotten beyond the point in thinking that if you have not been dunked then you have not been saved. It is not about the dunking. It is about the attitude of accepting a beautiful gift, of telling the world, "I want to give my allegiance to Jesus. I want to be part of this thing called Church."
So, I have been churched this weekend. For some, that sounds like a terrible nightmare. For me, it is a lovely respite in the week. Yes, there is junk there. Yes, there are flaws. Yes, there are the misguided. Yes, there are the stubborn. Yes, there are the gossips. Yes, there is unforgiveness in the hearts of some. Yes, there are those who are bitter. Yes, there are those who hang on to the bad, and find it hard to see the good. But, I want to be there. It is my best chance to see the love and kindness and acceptance and joy and genuine concern the Father has for us all, and, yes, I do mean all mankind. It is the place I can go for an attitude adjustment.
So, for today, I wish you a change in attitude if you need it. I wish you an abundant life of joy and peace. I wish you Church, or church, however you want to think of it. And, I wish you
blessings
Monday, July 30, 2012
Real Men
Saturday night, I attended a banquet. It was for a group of men. Most of those men are friends of Mr. Lincoln. I went because Mr. Lincoln was going to win an award. I tried to surprise him, but apparently the rarity of female participants and the bright red blouse I wore, compromised my stealth efforts. Mr. Lincoln came out in the hallway to get me and bring me to a seat at his table. Let me just say, with my vagueness, it is much easier to pass a fast one on me than on him. I think he was glad to see me.
Until I learned of the award Mr. Lincoln would be receiving, I had no intention of attending the banquet. One of his friends was retiring. Retirement would not have been his choice, but last fall he had an accident in Thailand while on business that left him, for a while, paralyzed from the waist down, and, now 38 weeks after the accident, he remains in physical therapy, unable to drive, and getting around using a cane. He is only 48 years old. That is why I had no notion of being at that banquet. I knew that it would be very poignant, and, yes, sad. Selfishly, I was going to spare myself the emotion. It was not to be.
My life would have been somewhat diminished had I missed this event. Mr. Lincoln and I have been married 38 years. We share a life of many commonalities. Our faith and our family would be the two things we share most deeply. We enjoy other things together like Seinfeld reruns, some (not all) sporting events, griping about politicians' campaign strategies, entertaining...things like that. But, we are not a couple who spends all our time together. I know very little about his day to day work. He hears more about mine, but while he encourages me, he is not all that interested in the nuts and bolts of my tours. We have a good deal of separateness in our togetherness. It works for us. We like it that way.
I have not always been as supportive of Mr. Linclon's fall pursuits as I could have been. I, foolishly, thought football was the big attraction, but the truth is, comraderie and friendship are the true lures.
The evening began by 16 new men being introduced into this fraternity of sorts. The importance of being part of such a group of men was stressed to them. I am sure, as in all organizations, there were those thinking, "yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, whatever." Most of them, however, will embrace being part of the group, and will work hard to be the best at their job that they can be.
Mr. Lincoln was then asked to present an award. He presented it to a young man who we have known for some time now. He told funny stories about Jason. He told Jason that the main reason he got his start in football officiating was because I thought he was cute. Obviously, there is more to him than his looks, as his peers voted him the recipient of the award he received, basically the "most outstanding young official" in the organization. Jason was truly and humbly surprised. He sent Mr. Lincoln a "thank you" email, saying what a good mentor and "father" figure he is. Mr. Lincoln won that award several years ago.
Next, a hilarious and precious man stood up to give Mr. Lincoln his award. This was also voted on by his peers. Where Jason's award is for the "most outstanding young official," Mr. Lincoln's is for the "most outstanding old official." Actually, it is for someone who gives back to the organization. Roy called Mr Lincoln his friend. What can anyone say better about us than that we are a friend? Roy talked about how Mr. Lincoln mentors young officials, and gives back to the organization. He talked about work ethic, and the desire to be the best he can be. I was like a proud mama when Jason got his award, and I was a most proud wife when Mr. Lincoln received his. You see, I know all those attributes to be true of him, and it brings me great joy when others recognize his worth.
Until I learned of the award Mr. Lincoln would be receiving, I had no intention of attending the banquet. One of his friends was retiring. Retirement would not have been his choice, but last fall he had an accident in Thailand while on business that left him, for a while, paralyzed from the waist down, and, now 38 weeks after the accident, he remains in physical therapy, unable to drive, and getting around using a cane. He is only 48 years old. That is why I had no notion of being at that banquet. I knew that it would be very poignant, and, yes, sad. Selfishly, I was going to spare myself the emotion. It was not to be.
My life would have been somewhat diminished had I missed this event. Mr. Lincoln and I have been married 38 years. We share a life of many commonalities. Our faith and our family would be the two things we share most deeply. We enjoy other things together like Seinfeld reruns, some (not all) sporting events, griping about politicians' campaign strategies, entertaining...things like that. But, we are not a couple who spends all our time together. I know very little about his day to day work. He hears more about mine, but while he encourages me, he is not all that interested in the nuts and bolts of my tours. We have a good deal of separateness in our togetherness. It works for us. We like it that way.
I have not always been as supportive of Mr. Linclon's fall pursuits as I could have been. I, foolishly, thought football was the big attraction, but the truth is, comraderie and friendship are the true lures.
The evening began by 16 new men being introduced into this fraternity of sorts. The importance of being part of such a group of men was stressed to them. I am sure, as in all organizations, there were those thinking, "yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, whatever." Most of them, however, will embrace being part of the group, and will work hard to be the best at their job that they can be.
Mr. Lincoln was then asked to present an award. He presented it to a young man who we have known for some time now. He told funny stories about Jason. He told Jason that the main reason he got his start in football officiating was because I thought he was cute. Obviously, there is more to him than his looks, as his peers voted him the recipient of the award he received, basically the "most outstanding young official" in the organization. Jason was truly and humbly surprised. He sent Mr. Lincoln a "thank you" email, saying what a good mentor and "father" figure he is. Mr. Lincoln won that award several years ago.
Next, a hilarious and precious man stood up to give Mr. Lincoln his award. This was also voted on by his peers. Where Jason's award is for the "most outstanding young official," Mr. Lincoln's is for the "most outstanding old official." Actually, it is for someone who gives back to the organization. Roy called Mr Lincoln his friend. What can anyone say better about us than that we are a friend? Roy talked about how Mr. Lincoln mentors young officials, and gives back to the organization. He talked about work ethic, and the desire to be the best he can be. I was like a proud mama when Jason got his award, and I was a most proud wife when Mr. Lincoln received his. You see, I know all those attributes to be true of him, and it brings me great joy when others recognize his worth.
There was a lot of laughter. Good advice was given. Roy told them all to approach each game and each play as though it would be their last, because you never know when it will be. He also said that all anyone can ask is that each one does his best. Not bad advice for life either.
The time then came for Mr. Lincoln to announce Michael's retirement. Most people who knew of his injury and the struggles since may not have been surprised. It had been kept a secret from almost everyone. To officially hear of his retirement was a blow to many. Mr. Lincoln cried, Michael cycled through tears to laughter to tears many times. Roy cried. Freddy cried. Even Greg choked up. Great funny stories were told. Accolades and words of thankfulness for the association of these men were uttered. A bowing to the power of God Almighty was displayed. It was a grand coronation of faith and respect and love and friendship between real men.
It seemed as though Michael was reluctant to say any words upon receiving recognition, but Mr. Lincoln encouraged him. I am glad that he did, for Michael's words as well as the way he is taking his walk in faith are an inspiration to those paying attention. His is a life interrupted, but I am confident that with God's help and his own dogged determination, that Michael will, as he vowed, be "back on the field."
I do not often enter an arena dominated by so many men. I hear how men are only able to compete, not nurture. I know that to not be so. I witnessed it myself at a banquet I attended Saturday night. My life and spirit are better for it.
So, for today I wish you real men in your life...the kind who live their faith, who love their families, who enjoy and work at their hobbies, and I wish you
blessings
Sunday, July 22, 2012
The Other Side
There is a song that was popular a few years ago. I despise the words:
there's holes in the floor of Heaven,
"And her tears are pouring down.
"That's how you know she's watching,
"Wishing she could be here now.
"An' sometimes if you're lonely,
"Just remember she can see.
"There's holes in the floor of Heaven
"And she's watching over you and me."
What kind of theology is that? Where is there any comfort in knowing that someone who has died is weeping in heaven, longing to be on earth, and seeing the pain of loved ones? Where is any desire created to go where the pains and sorrows of this world can be seen in total? This song came to me as I, this week, have contemplated "the other side."
About ten days ago we got word that the grandson of a friend had died of a heroine overdose. This poor boy's life on this earth contained a wealth of misery. His father was abusive. His mother, a perpetual child. He must have felt that he had no advocates. He did have many who prayed for and fretted over him. Several made efforts to get him the help he needed. Only about thirty people attended his funeral. I think of such small attendance for the very old who have out lived most of the people in their lives. I do not think of so small a number at the service of one so young. It spoke of his isolation.
There is no comfort thinking of this young man's tears escaping through the holes in heaven. Instead, I prefer to think of him resting in the arms of a loving Father, cared for and understood. I choose to believe that he found the answers he was seeking, there on the other side.
The autumn my father died, I was walking around a lake in a wildlife preserve near my home. It was one of those heartbreakingly beautiful fall days we have here in Middle Tennessee. The sky was a brilliant cerulean. The leaves, clothed in gold and red and orange looked as if they were lighted from within. There was a welcome cool breeze after the heat of the summer. Moving reflections in the lake created one-of-a-kind art abstractions. I remember feeling so sad that my father was missing all that beauty. Then, it occured to me. Daddy was not missing the beauty. He was seeing it from the other side. I figured it was even more beautiful from his viewing platform than it was from mine.
Some eighteen years ago (can it have been that long), a very close friend died. She had spent the weekend with her husband and children. They had been hiking. She loved the outdoors. They said she sang "As the Deer," a song I can never sing without weeping now, as they tromped through the woods. She died after they returned home. She died in the car as her husband drove her to the hospital. There was not time to wait for an ambulance. Her heart had given out. No matter how old I live to be, I will never forget how I felt the day a friend called me with the news. I had had surgery, and was home recovering. Friends came to my house, and we wept together, remembering our friend.
A year or so after Millie's death, Mr. Lincoln and I were driving home from Florida. We were going through Birmingham (I think). It was a night when the moon was full. I remember looking out the window at the moon, enjoying how exquisitely beautiful it was. I pictured Millie, sitting with God, and viewing that scene from the other side. As we continued, mile after mile, I was comforted by that vision in my mind's eye. What must that moon look like from the other side? Scientists would give me some explanation, I imagine, but I reckon I will find out on my own when I am on the other side.
In a few minutes, I am going to a visitation. I do not want to go. I have tried to come up with every reason to not go. I have a headache. It is just going to be too hard to look into the grief I know I am going to see there. They won't know if I come or not. I am really not THAT close to the family. Mr. Lincoln says I need to face my demons. So, I shall go. But, I am not happy to be attending the visitation for a 34 year old man who died suddenly, presumably from an undetected heart defect. I will look in the eyes of his mother with fear and dread. I do not ever want to know that kind of pain.
My son and I were discussing this yesterday. He has known an inordinate number of young men who have died from various causes. He feels things deeply, so he is hurting. He said it seems like it is the really good guys, who take care of themselves that die young. For lack of a better term, it seems so unfair. We decided that maybe we do not look at it properly. Our humanity really does not let us see it any other way than a life cut short, and deep sorrow left in the loss. We do not see from the other side. We only know life from this side.
I think we can choose to imagine life from the other side. Not a ridiculous view of our tears flowing through the floor of heaven as we witness the trials and tribulations of this earth. Rather, a view from the other side as, perhaps, we see the world through God's eyes. On the other side we will witness the divinity in each person. We will witness good hearts instead of flawed people. Finally, at age 60, I have come to believe that is what God sees. The potential for good and not the screw-ups. I believe from the other side He smiles down on us. I know there is a lot of crud in this world. I am not that Pollyannaish, but I choose to believe that the view from the other side is spectacular, and viewed in the presence of Magnificence.
For today, I wish you courage to face your demons, I wish you a glimpse of the world through God's eyes, and I wish you
blessings
there's holes in the floor of Heaven,
"And her tears are pouring down.
"That's how you know she's watching,
"Wishing she could be here now.
"An' sometimes if you're lonely,
"Just remember she can see.
"There's holes in the floor of Heaven
"And she's watching over you and me."
What kind of theology is that? Where is there any comfort in knowing that someone who has died is weeping in heaven, longing to be on earth, and seeing the pain of loved ones? Where is any desire created to go where the pains and sorrows of this world can be seen in total? This song came to me as I, this week, have contemplated "the other side."
About ten days ago we got word that the grandson of a friend had died of a heroine overdose. This poor boy's life on this earth contained a wealth of misery. His father was abusive. His mother, a perpetual child. He must have felt that he had no advocates. He did have many who prayed for and fretted over him. Several made efforts to get him the help he needed. Only about thirty people attended his funeral. I think of such small attendance for the very old who have out lived most of the people in their lives. I do not think of so small a number at the service of one so young. It spoke of his isolation.
There is no comfort thinking of this young man's tears escaping through the holes in heaven. Instead, I prefer to think of him resting in the arms of a loving Father, cared for and understood. I choose to believe that he found the answers he was seeking, there on the other side.
The autumn my father died, I was walking around a lake in a wildlife preserve near my home. It was one of those heartbreakingly beautiful fall days we have here in Middle Tennessee. The sky was a brilliant cerulean. The leaves, clothed in gold and red and orange looked as if they were lighted from within. There was a welcome cool breeze after the heat of the summer. Moving reflections in the lake created one-of-a-kind art abstractions. I remember feeling so sad that my father was missing all that beauty. Then, it occured to me. Daddy was not missing the beauty. He was seeing it from the other side. I figured it was even more beautiful from his viewing platform than it was from mine.
Some eighteen years ago (can it have been that long), a very close friend died. She had spent the weekend with her husband and children. They had been hiking. She loved the outdoors. They said she sang "As the Deer," a song I can never sing without weeping now, as they tromped through the woods. She died after they returned home. She died in the car as her husband drove her to the hospital. There was not time to wait for an ambulance. Her heart had given out. No matter how old I live to be, I will never forget how I felt the day a friend called me with the news. I had had surgery, and was home recovering. Friends came to my house, and we wept together, remembering our friend.
A year or so after Millie's death, Mr. Lincoln and I were driving home from Florida. We were going through Birmingham (I think). It was a night when the moon was full. I remember looking out the window at the moon, enjoying how exquisitely beautiful it was. I pictured Millie, sitting with God, and viewing that scene from the other side. As we continued, mile after mile, I was comforted by that vision in my mind's eye. What must that moon look like from the other side? Scientists would give me some explanation, I imagine, but I reckon I will find out on my own when I am on the other side.
In a few minutes, I am going to a visitation. I do not want to go. I have tried to come up with every reason to not go. I have a headache. It is just going to be too hard to look into the grief I know I am going to see there. They won't know if I come or not. I am really not THAT close to the family. Mr. Lincoln says I need to face my demons. So, I shall go. But, I am not happy to be attending the visitation for a 34 year old man who died suddenly, presumably from an undetected heart defect. I will look in the eyes of his mother with fear and dread. I do not ever want to know that kind of pain.
My son and I were discussing this yesterday. He has known an inordinate number of young men who have died from various causes. He feels things deeply, so he is hurting. He said it seems like it is the really good guys, who take care of themselves that die young. For lack of a better term, it seems so unfair. We decided that maybe we do not look at it properly. Our humanity really does not let us see it any other way than a life cut short, and deep sorrow left in the loss. We do not see from the other side. We only know life from this side.
I think we can choose to imagine life from the other side. Not a ridiculous view of our tears flowing through the floor of heaven as we witness the trials and tribulations of this earth. Rather, a view from the other side as, perhaps, we see the world through God's eyes. On the other side we will witness the divinity in each person. We will witness good hearts instead of flawed people. Finally, at age 60, I have come to believe that is what God sees. The potential for good and not the screw-ups. I believe from the other side He smiles down on us. I know there is a lot of crud in this world. I am not that Pollyannaish, but I choose to believe that the view from the other side is spectacular, and viewed in the presence of Magnificence.
For today, I wish you courage to face your demons, I wish you a glimpse of the world through God's eyes, and I wish you
blessings
Saturday, June 23, 2012
In the Gloaming
Last night's twilight finds me rocking a sleeping baby. The house is quiet except for the creaking of the rocking chair and my voice softly, and somewhat off-key, singing hymns. That chair has rocked several generations of this family. Those songs have comforted us as well. Rainbows from the slanting sunlight hitting prisms hanging in the windows frolic across the ceiling and walls. The dappled light beneath the trees creates an impressionist's masterpiece painted by the hand of God. A bluebird ventures from his home in the backyard to a branch in the front. Bunnies hop with stems of clover in their mouths, the last meal of the day before darkness sets in. It is a peaceful respite from the clamor of the day.
All around me there is disarray. The baby has been restless most of the day. Crying more than is his norm. Intellectually, I know that babies cry, but in my heart it hurts to hear. His parents are working hard to get moved into their new house, but with school and work and a baby, it is a slow process. There is so much to do. My own house is a mess. Until some projects are completed there is little hope for order. Minor obstacles that will not matter a year from now.
Within me there is a tangle of confusion. Family members who are hurting because the need to downsize has arisen. They are packing. They are leaving a house that holds many memories. They are wise to understand that they are leaving a house. They are not leaving their home, for where they are together is home. But, still, there is poignancy in the move. I am feeling that for them as I rock that sweet baby in the gloaming.
Within me lies a broken heart for a friend who is dealing with devastating loss. It is an event that will matter a year from now. The loss will forever change the topography of her life's map. I find myself voicing my anger at God for the loss. We have begged on our faces at the Father's feet for relief, and it seems that our pleas go unheard. I do not have fear that voicing anger to and at God will bring down upon me some terrible calamity. I know that He can take my anger and frustration. My anger is a sign of my faith. Because of that sweet baby in my arms, my railing is done silently, but I know that I am heard. When oh, Lord, will you bring my friend relief and the desires of her heart? And, still, I live with hope. Some would call me foolish. It is all that I know to choose as I rock and sing in the gloaming.
A writing in the paper this week has created angst in the heart of one I love dearly. It is a puzzle that will never be put back together. There are missing pieces and pieces from other puzzles that do not fit. The most important piece is gone, and so befuddlement continues. No logic can be applied to work it out. As night falls, I ponder these things as I rock and sing in the gloaming.
As I breathe in the sweet warmth of a newly bathed baby, listen to the creak of an old rocker, weep for a wounded friend, enjoy the beauty of the dying day, I wish you hope for the future, courage for the moment, faith to sustain you, and I wish you
blessings
All around me there is disarray. The baby has been restless most of the day. Crying more than is his norm. Intellectually, I know that babies cry, but in my heart it hurts to hear. His parents are working hard to get moved into their new house, but with school and work and a baby, it is a slow process. There is so much to do. My own house is a mess. Until some projects are completed there is little hope for order. Minor obstacles that will not matter a year from now.
Within me there is a tangle of confusion. Family members who are hurting because the need to downsize has arisen. They are packing. They are leaving a house that holds many memories. They are wise to understand that they are leaving a house. They are not leaving their home, for where they are together is home. But, still, there is poignancy in the move. I am feeling that for them as I rock that sweet baby in the gloaming.
Within me lies a broken heart for a friend who is dealing with devastating loss. It is an event that will matter a year from now. The loss will forever change the topography of her life's map. I find myself voicing my anger at God for the loss. We have begged on our faces at the Father's feet for relief, and it seems that our pleas go unheard. I do not have fear that voicing anger to and at God will bring down upon me some terrible calamity. I know that He can take my anger and frustration. My anger is a sign of my faith. Because of that sweet baby in my arms, my railing is done silently, but I know that I am heard. When oh, Lord, will you bring my friend relief and the desires of her heart? And, still, I live with hope. Some would call me foolish. It is all that I know to choose as I rock and sing in the gloaming.
A writing in the paper this week has created angst in the heart of one I love dearly. It is a puzzle that will never be put back together. There are missing pieces and pieces from other puzzles that do not fit. The most important piece is gone, and so befuddlement continues. No logic can be applied to work it out. As night falls, I ponder these things as I rock and sing in the gloaming.
As I breathe in the sweet warmth of a newly bathed baby, listen to the creak of an old rocker, weep for a wounded friend, enjoy the beauty of the dying day, I wish you hope for the future, courage for the moment, faith to sustain you, and I wish you
blessings
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