Looking to 2019

It must be miserable to live with one’s emotions being driven by the political scene or material well-being or even human relationships.  So many people in this world….even in our country….are suffering.  Some of that is needless.

Do I like every decision that our president has made…no.  Do I approve of everything congress has done…no.  Am I concerned about the “hot spots” in the world that could flare up into open conflict…sure…but I refuse to obsess over any of these.

Do I feel badly about children going hungry…yes….but I recognize I can only do what I can do.  I will try to be responsive to the needs that God puts in front of me.

Are there frightening possibilities beyond my control?  Well, let’s see…there are volcanoes and earthquakes and tornadoes and ice storms, and absolutely nothing I can do about any of them.  There are crazy people running around with guns.  Will I encounter one of them?

Not everyone likes me.  I have been gossiped about.  I have been left out of things I would have enjoyed attending.  As I have aged, certain of my prior skills have been diminished to the point that I can no longer do those things I once enjoyed.  Gee…maybe I should let myself sink into a slough of despond over no longer being included in these joyful activities.

Wait!  There are people in this world right now who are actually suffering!  There are Christians in countries where great oppression occurs daily.  Some are physically in danger.  They may be tortured or killed.  There are people all over the world…even some I know...suffering with disease that inflicts physical and emotional pain.  How dare I have a pity party? 

A new year is coming.  What will it bring?  I have no clue, but if I go on living, it can be guaranteed that some of what happens in 2019 will be “good” and some of it will be “bad.”  That is, by human standards some things will bring me joy and others will bring me grief.  But God is good all the time, and it is his intent to mold me into the person He wants me to be.  I will not be a lump of clay yelling at the potter, because I don’t like the way he is shaping me.  It is my intent to embrace the pain of being alive.

The outward man does indeed suffer wear and tear, but every day the inward man receives fresh strength.  These little troubles (which are really so transitory) are winning for us a permanent, glorious and solid reward out of all proportion to our pain.  For we are looking all the time not at the visible things but at the invisible.  The visible things are transitory; it is the invisible things that are really permanent. 

(from II Corinthians chapter 4, Phillips translation)

My Beautiful Mother

I lost my beautiful Mother 20 years ago on December 23^rd.  For the five months prior to that day, I had cared for her 24/7 following her massive stroke.  It left her paralyzed on her right side, unable to carry on a coherent conversation, unable to feed herself, and in pain.  Just before the stroke, she was supposed to have surgery to improve the circulation in her legs, but a heart attack followed by the stroke made that impossible.  The circulation deteriorated, and she developed gangrene first in a toe, then the foot, then the leg.  During the last few days of her life, I kept her heavily sedated and watched as the dark discoloration inched up her leg.  I found myself wanting her to die.  I was angry that a pacemaker had been inserted earlier that year.  If not for that, she might have died during the heart attack or stroke which, to me, seemed like a more merciful ending.

For many months afterward, I could not properly grieve her loss.  It took time to rub out the memory of the last few months and recapture the memory of the person she had been in earlier years.  I was glad the suffering person was gone to be with Jesus and was no longer in pain.  Later, I could miss the wonderful person she had been before the illness.

My Mom was one of four siblings who survived.  A baby sister died as an infant.  She was left with 3 brothers...loud, opinionated brothers, who delighted in teasing her.  After World War II, my father and my Mom’s 3 brothers all returned from military service, and all moved in with my maternal grandparents while the men attempted to reestablish themselves as civilians.  I was about 7 months old when they came home at Thanksgiving time in 1945. 

The 3 brothers couldn’t resist using me to torture my Mom.  On one occasion she came in the kitchen to find me sitting in my high chair holding a sharp knife.  When she became a bit hysterical, brother #2 shrugged and said, “She asked for it.”  Brother #3 began attending law school and managed to teach me as a toddler, that if my Mom scolded me, I should say, “I’m standing on my constitutional rights.”  All three brothers were given to using inappropriate words for a toddler to learn.  My Mother put a jar on the kitchen table and told them if they used such words, they had to put money in the jar for my future education.  One time, one of them stuffed the jar in advance and then turned the air blue with a string of profanities.  When I was being potty trained, I would wait until brother #1 was in the shower, and then say I needed to use the potty, because I knew he would come out dripping wet wrapped in a towel, and this amused me.  Poor Mom had a rough go of it for those first few years of my life.

My first recollections of her were her kindness in caring for me when I was ill, her frustration with my smart mouth, and that she was often exhausted from hard work.  My parents struggled financially during my early years, and Mom worked in the garden and did a lot of canning so that we had fruits and vegetables during the winter months.  I remember long walks, since she never did learn to drive.  I thought of her as serious, but there were times when she was extremely funny, singing and dancing around the house and being a bit of an actress.  She had always wanted to play an instrument, but her parents wouldn’t pay for lessons.  She said they were convinced she wouldn’t stick with it, because her #1 brother hadn’t stuck with his violin lessons.  She played the piano by ear.  I’m not sure how she did this.  I have always had to have music in front of me to play.

Mom was very artistic.  Her parents had wanted her to pursue a career in art, but she wanted to be a nurse, and she did become an RN.  She illustrated a book on baby care that her hospital produced.  She worked as a nurse until after she married my Dad.  But art was a life-long hobby.  She made lovely illustrated songbooks for children’s groups.  She was always interested in helping children with crafts.  As a child, she encouraged me to work on various craft projects.  When I was about six, one of the men who made deliveries to our home (I don’t remember if it was the milkman or breadman) had a daughter who was bedridden with an extended illness.  Mom helped me create a scrapbook of pictures for the little girl.  I cut interesting pictures out of magazines and pasted them in a blank book.

I started school a year before I was old enough.  Basically, this was because I was exhausting my Mother with my constant questions and attempts to tell her what to do.  She begged the school to take me.  I quickly became easier to manage at home, because I always had my nose in a book.  Through my growing up years, she defended my right to read.  My Dad would get upset that I wasn’t helping her with some bit of housework.  She would say, “She’s reading.  Let her read!”  I appreciated her understanding that my brain worked overtime, and I needed to learn new things.

I also appreciated her kindness at times I was upset.  She never belittled my “problems.”  In particular, there was the day in 4^th grade when I came home and threw myself on the bed and sobbed.  My “boyfriend” had made it clear that our relationship was over by pushing me off the school bus seat onto the floor.  She could have made light of my puppy love and childish emotions, but she comforted me in keeping with my broken heart.  She was always available to talk about what was important to me.

When I was a teenager, we went shopping one spring for a new dress for me.  I could not make up my mind between two dresses which I liked and asked Mom what she thought.  She said, “I want you to have both of them.”  I knew my parents couldn’t afford for me to buy both, and I said that I only needed one.  She said with tears welling up in her eyes, “You are the only girl at church who has to wear the same dress every week.  I want you to have both.”  I don’t think I had noticed this.  In fact, I had one friend who was worse off…she wore the same sweater and skirt to school every day!  I knew if I got both, Mom would go without something, but she insisted.

When I left home and went hundreds of miles away to school, she wrote me almost every day.  Her letters were newsy and full of descriptions of amusing events that had happened in the family. I loved receiving them and felt still connected to my family because of them.

After I had finished nursing school and started college, Mom had a serious illness and was hospitalized when I came home on Christmas break.  It was a startling experience for me to realize that a role reversal was taking place.  When I visited her in the hospital, the conversation was not about me and what was going on in college.  It was about her illness and her concerns.  Fortunately, she recovered, and we had many more years of conversations that were a more mature balance in which we each could share our concerns.

When our family moved resulting in meeting the man who would become my husband, she “fell in love” with him before I did….but that is another story!

My Mother was very supportive of me during the years I was raising my own children.  She enjoyed spending time with them which was helpful to me, and she listened to me when I was struggling with some parenting issue.

Everyone who knew her thought of her as sweet and gentle, but let me tell you, you didn’t want to mess with Laurena!   Any man who hassled her was likely to experience her special technique.  She would face the person squarely and shake her fist in his face saying, “Ya see this?”  As he looked at the fist, she would bring up the fist of the other hand and deliver a gut-punch.  While he was trying to recover the air he had just lost, she would say, “That wasn’t the one to watch!”  Both of my brothers will attest to this being true as they have both been on the receiving end.

My Mom….she was beautiful.  She was smart.  She was kind. She was not perfect, but I loved her dearly.  Those difficult 5 months are only a fraction of the time we had together.  With the passage of time, the agony of that brief slice of time has diminished, and I can remember my Mom for who she really was during most of her life.

What a lovely lady!

While I Slept

While I slept, the world changed.

Silently the flakes fell,

Covering ground and trees,

Creating an enchanted wonderland.

But…

While I slept, the world changed.

Somewhere a parent died.

A child’s cry went unanswered,

Creating a painful void.

While I slept, the world changed.

Troops lined up for battle,

Poised to strike at daybreak,

Creating a hellish conflagration.

While I slept, the world changed.

A spark easily extinguished smoldered.

Unnoticed it erupted and spread,

Creating a charred and desolate landscape.

While I slept, the world changed.

Ethics and morals slipped away.

The foundations of society shook,

Creating a world with no absolutes.

And yet..

While I slept, the world changed.

A child was born to be a Savior,

And with Him came the promise that I

And the world can be created anew.

Giving Up What One Loves

I am baking cookies today and thinking about my mother.  It was her great delight in life to be of service to others, and this often involved baking and cooking.  She was happy to provide cookies for any occasion, meals for a family having a difficult time, or a pie just to be kind to a neighbor.

As she aged, she did not want to give up on these things, so…

One day she baked a blueberry pie for a neighbor, but essential tremor is inherited in her family (which is why I now have it), and between the tremor and some weakness of age, she dropped the pie on the neighbor’s front steps making a huge blueberry mess.  She was upset, and I am sure, embarrassed.

The day she tripped and fell up the basement steps breaking her arm in three places, she had gone to the basement to get some potatoes to make a meal for a family who had just had a new baby.  The meal didn’t happen, and surgery followed by a long recovery did happen.

These things both occurred when she was in her early to mid-70s, along with another incident.  I asked her to bake cookies for an event at church.  My father was later furious with me and told me I was never to do that again.  She did not admit it, but he said that on the first try she had left out a major ingredient and had to throw out the whole batch and start over.  My dad was not kind when things of this nature happened.  I had asked her, because although I knew she was getting frail, I also knew how much she liked to contribute.

I don’t remember exact ages or sequence of these incidents, but I do know she went into a decline at age 74.  Up until that time, she could run circles around women 20 years younger.

I am now 73.  I am basically well, but I have recently been having joint pain in my hips.  It is becoming more difficult for me to stand in the kitchen for extended time periods, so I had decided that this holiday season, I would not bake Christmas cookies.  Ha-ha.  I have three occasions coming up for which I have been asked to bake cookies.  Did I say “no.”  Of course not.  I am my mother’s daughter, and I won’t stop because of some pain.  I will wait until I drop something, or fall up the steps, or get so confused that I mess up the recipe.  The difference will be, my husband won’t get upset about it.  He will hug me and say, “Let’s just go buy some cookies.”

Who knows…maybe I will be able to bake for another 20 years and won’t ever have to give up something that I genuinely love doing!

The Red Sweater

I have long ago outgrown the excitement of receiving Christmas gifts.  I have NOT outgrown the delight of giving them.  I absolutely love having an excuse to give gifts to the people I love.  I will use any excuse to send a little something to grandchildren...Halloween, Valentine’s Day, the beginning of the school year, good grades at the end of the school year, going on a trip…sometimes, no reason at all.  So, being able to select Christmas gifts that my family members will enjoy is great joy to me!

But, I do remember a Christmas gift I received with great disappointment, which I had to suppress.

The year I was twelve, my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother.  To my knowledge, her pregnancy with me was the only uneventful one.  Two pregnancies had ended in miscarriage and two had resulted in blood clots in her legs which caused her to be bedridden most of the pregnancy.  This would not be the case now.  One of my daughters apparently inherited the problem and was able to continue living normally by self-injecting heparin every day.  My mother had to stay in bed.  This caused huge changes in my life…more responsibility than I was used to and much less focus on my needs.

My brother was born in January, so when Christmas came, Mom was confined to bed and unable to shop for gifts.  She gave my dad a list, and as she put it, “he did the best that he could.”  Just before the holiday, she said she needed to talk to me.  I had asked for a red cardigan sweater.  Dad had purchased a red cardigan, but it was the wrong size…. way too big.  My mother asked me to say ‘thank you’ and not let him know it was too big.  She did not want him to feel he had failed in his assignment when he had tried to do the right thing.  There was no time to exchange it, and I suspect he was feeling overwhelmed.

So, Christmas came, and the gifts were given, and the sweater was huge, and I said ‘thank you.’  Since it was my main gift, I choked back some tears and put on a happy face.  I was grateful that my dad had tried.  I don’t think I ever felt quite the same about Christmas gifts after that.  I began to develop a more grown-up perspective.

Christmas did indeed come, whether or not I was delighted with my gifts.  There were still decorations, and cookies, and wonderful music, and family get-togethers, AND oh yes, Jesus had come!  All the trappings of Christmas just set the mood.  The real event is that God sent His son into the world to be my Savior.  What a gift!  No disappointment!

I eventually grew into the red sweater.

I also grew into the realization that giving is much more fun than getting.

When the Pilot Light is Out

The pastor didn’t mean to traumatize me with his sermon this morning.  He was talking about being filled with the Spirit and being a blazing flame instead of a flickering pilot light.

Pilot light?  Uh-oh!

About the time of my 12th birthday, we had a problem with our gas hot water heater.  After 61 years, some of the details are fuzzy, but I remember this as a two-day event.  On the first day, the pilot light on the water heater went out, but the gas continued to flow.  We all began to feel ill, but as I remember it, my Dad and I had been out of the house more that day than my Mother and brother Bud, so they were feeling really ill, but Dad and I were still pretty functional.  At some point in this mess, a rep of the utility company had come, and the problem was supposed to have been resolved.

The next evening there was a special meeting going on at church, and my Dad decided to attend.  A family friend had passed away, so Dad’s plan was to attend the calling hours following the meeting at church.  I was left at home with Mom and Bud.  I was the healthiest one who could tend to any needs that arose.

During the evening, Mom and I both smelled gas again.  Mom was still pretty weak and shaky.  She said that she was going down to the basement to light the pilot, and I should come with her since she was so wobbly.  She was my mother and at 12, I wasn’t yet in the habit of teenage defiance of authority (actually, I never did reach that point).  Afterward, I wished that I had argued with her that it was a bad idea.  The basement was, after all, full of gas.

I helped her down the stairs.  She knelt in front of the hot water heater and confirmed that the pilot was out.  She said she would relight it and struck the match.  Flames shot out of the hot water heater accompanied by a blast that knocked her backward.  She flew past me.  I smelled the awful odor of singed hair and burned flesh.  Her eyebrows were gone, her hair was singed, and her right hand was badly burned. And there I was…the responsible “adult.”

I got her up the stairs and into bed.  I was terrified that there would be a larger fire.  I got on the phone and called the church, but my Dad had already left for the calling hours.  I don’t remember to whom I talked, but help was on the way!  Someone went to get my Dad, and people from the church began arriving at our house to do whatever needed doing.  There was no such thing as 911 in those days.  A local doctor was called and came to the house.  The utility company was called and arrived to shut off the gas and assess the situation.  I remember a group of men standing on the front lawn in animated discussion.

Mom’s hair and eyebrows grew back, but it took her hand months to heal.  I had guilt feelings for a long time.  I knew enough from my science classes, that I felt I should have thought about the possibility of an explosion.  It was my first experience with the realization that a situation might arise in which I could make a better decision than one of my parents….who knew?

Long range outcomes have included:

*I have never had a gas range and avoid gas appliances whenever possible…not that there aren’t risks with electric appliances.  I could tell another story about that!

*I was once on a medication that I knew was messing with my head, and my husband was out of town.  I told my young teen son that if he saw me doing anything unreasonable, he had my permission to stop me.  Sometimes a child does make a better decision than the parent.

All of this has nothing to do with the pastor’s sermon which was about the way in which the Holy Spirit manifests himself differently in the lives of different people.  I did manage to shake off my unpleasant memories and pull my thoughts back to the sermon, but here I am on a Sunday afternoon over six decades later reliving the event.

Deliver Us from Evil

I can’t find Children’s Memorial Hospital on a Chicago map, so I guess it no longer exists.  In 1965 when I was a nursing student in the Chicago area, I spent three months at that hospital for my pediatric rotation.  I could write several blogs about experiences I had there, and I’m not sure why this one is coming to mind today.  Perhaps it is because of all the current media attention to sexual harassment.

The hospital took up a triangular shaped block on the northside of Chicago, not very far from Lake Michigan.  A park on the shore of the lake was an easy walk from the nurses’ residence which was across the street from the hospital itself and connected by a tunnel.  In addition to the tunnel providing for safely crossing the street away from traffic and out of the weather, it also kept us safe from the neighborhood which was a bit sketchy.  It wasn’t a good place to walk alone. 

On one occasion, I planned to return to my home hospital for a couple of days to work on my days off.  I was starting to save money for college.  I had to walk a couple of blocks to the nearest station for the elevated train.  It was broad daylight, so I didn’t expect any problem.  I was on a busy street.  But, I noticed a man ahead of me who had stopped and was staring at me with interest.  I thought about crossing the street, but traffic was coming steadily, and I was in the middle of a block.  I was carrying a suitcase.  As I got near him, he said, “What’s the matter, doll?  Gotta leave town?”

I ignored him.  He repeated his questions.  This time I just uttered a “yup,” not making eye contact.

As I passed, he called after me, “Too bad….cute little doll like you!”

I can only imagine what would have happened if I had been in distress and actually contemplating leaving town.  I’m pretty sure he would have offered to “help.”

Although that was a bit unnerving, it did not compare with another incident when I was walking alone.  Sometimes I just needed to get away and out for some fresh air.  One evening when no one else was available, I decided to walk to the park by Lake Michigan by myself.  I had a nice stroll through the park and as dusk approached, I had turned to head home, when two policemen walked toward me.

“You shouldn’t be down here walking by yourself.”

I replied, “I’m heading home right now.”

One of them said, “It isn’t safe here.  We have animals that swing out of the trees.”

“Yeah,” said the other, “and some of them wear blue uniforms.”

My heart skipped a couple of beats….were they saying I couldn’t trust even them?

I tried hard to show no fear and kept walking.

I also showed no fear the evening I was walking up the stairs to the elevated train platform and a young man was standing under the stairs “exhibiting.”  If he was expecting a scream, he was disappointed.  I acted like I didn’t even notice.

Looking back on this now, I’m thinking, “Wow, this all happened within a 3-month period about the time of my 20^th birthday.   Why was I able to handle this?”

Someone was probably praying for my safety, as I now pray for the safety of my granddaughters.   “O God, don’t let evil come near them!”

Self-Discipline

My daughter-in-law sent a picture of our almost two-year-old grandson standing in the time-out corner crying.  The accompanying text explained that after being told to stop an offending behavior three times, he put himself in the corner and stood there crying about his self-inflicted punishment.

This did not surprise me at all, because the little guy’s father once negotiated to increase his punishment.  He was dairy allergic and could, therefore, not have the joy of getting ice cream on those hot summer days when the ice cream truck came jingling through the neighborhood.  Eventually we learned that the truck also had blow-pops which were safe for him.  One day I was sitting on the front porch doing some hand-sewing when the ice cream truck appeared and parked across the street.  I gave my son the money for the blow-pop.  I didn’t think to admonish him to look both ways before crossing, because he had been wary of streets since being a toddler and always crossed cautiously.  But…not this day.  He ran out into the street towards the ice cream truck never stopping to look.  A UPS truck was coming on a collision course.  I saw it, but I made a split-second decision not to scream.  I calculated that if he heard me and stopped, he would be hit.  If he kept running, he might make it.  The ice cream truck driver saw what was happening and started to jump out of his truck.  The UPS driver saw him and slammed on his brakes.  I imagine their hearts were racing as fast as mine.  He made it across the street and purchased his blow-pop.

That night when I tucked him in, I talked to him about what had happened.  I said, “I think I need to do something to help you remember to cross the street safely.  So, I am going to tell you that you can’t go to the truck for a blow-pop for the next two weeks.”

He replied, “Two weeks isn’t long enough.”  He was only about 6 or 7 when this happened, but he apparently already knew that a blow-pop wasn’t as valuable as his life.

As it turned out, about two weeks later, we went to our cottage which is on the grounds of a camp which has a snack store.  He discovered the blow-pops cost much less at the snack shop than they did from the ice cream truck.  He figured getting them from the truck was a rip-off, and never asked to get one from the truck again.  I am not sure if the cost difference or the value of his life was the deciding factor.

When my children were teens, I told them repeatedly that if they were to discipline themselves, no one else would have to do it.  I have no idea if they remember me saying this, but I tried hard to help them understand that as we grow toward adulthood, we are supposed to learn to control our own behaviors.  Parents and teachers are not trying to make kids miserable.  They will not inflict discipline if there are no offending behaviors.

Looking at the picture of my little grandson wailing in the time-out corner, I could not help but think this would be a better world if we all put ourselves in time-out and were sorrowful when we did wrong!

Anonymous Gifts

There was a time in my life when I felt poor, and I was relatively poor.  “Poor” is always relative, because you can always find someone worse off than you are yourself.  When I was in high school, I had a friend who bragged that she could go through two weeks without wearing the same outfit twice.  I had 3 sweaters and 3 skirts, some of which could be worn in different combinations, so I could get through a week without re-wearing the exact same outfit.  I had a friend who had just one sweater and one skirt which always looked clean.  I’m not sure how she accomplished that.

My parents had agreed they would pay for me to go to nursing school, but I was on my own after that.  Because nursing students were basically the hospital’s slaves in those old three-year diploma programs, hospital-based programs were inexpensive.  The entire three years cost about the same as a semester of college. 

In addition, my parents sent me $12 a month.  While it is true that $12 was worth more then than it is now, it was still a pittance.  That amount kept me in toilet articles and stockings (There was a time when pantyhose didn’t exist).  I did not have the money for any splurges.  I remember on one occasion being with a group that decided to stop for ice cream, and I had no money for a cone.

One of the amazing encouragements to me at this point in my life was periodically receiving an anonymous gift.  A card…often a “Thinking of You” card…would arrive in my mailbox with a five-dollar bill in it.  The envelope would not have a return address, and the card would not be signed.  The cards were mailed from several different small towns in the area in which I grew up.  While it was very tempting to try and figure out who might be doing this, I had to give up on it.  I talked to my mother about it, and although we could think of some possibilities, I never did know for sure.  No one ever revealed himself/herself as the donor.

Five dollars doesn’t seem like much, but these gifts always seemed to arrive when I was most in need.  It was also a huge encouragement to me that someone was thinking of me.  I suspected it was someone from my church, and that meant they were also praying for me.

Over the years, I have encountered other people who have received anonymous gifts.  I have always suggested that they not expend too much effort in trying to figure out the source.  If someone sends a gift anonymously, they do that for a reason.  It is best for the recipient just to take it as God’s provision for their need.  I’m pretty sure that is the intent of the person sending it.

Be thankful, and “pay it forward” when you can!

Senior Menus and Senior Moments

Before I was a senior myself, I thought that the purpose of a senior menu was to give the elderly less expensive choices.  After all, many are living on fixed incomes.  I, of course, noted that the servings were smaller, but I didn’t realize the extent to which metabolism and appetite are impacted by age.  For decades, I was able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted to eat.  and I did not gain weight.  Now, even though my appetite is significantly less, I can’t seem to avoid a creeping weight gain.

If I order off the regular menu, the portions are usually so large that I cannot finish my meal.  Sometimes by the time the main course arrives, I already feel full from the salad and a small roll or piece of bread.  I eat some of the entrée and ask for a box to take the rest home.  The upside of this scenario is that, if my husband does this too, I do not have to cook the next evening.  I am thinking about this, because I do not have to cook this evening due to the events of last evening.

A couple of weeks ago, Bill brought home tickets to a fundraiser taking place at a very nice restaurant in a nearby St. Lawrence River town.  Accordingly, we drove the 20+ miles last evening.  It was a lovely drive…lots of fall colors along the way.  When we arrived at the restaurant, the parking lot was very crowded.  We assumed that the fundraiser was going well.  But when we got inside, we discovered that the fundraiser is next week.  Neither of us had….in our senility…looked closely at the tickets.  We don’t know how we got the event on the wrong date on the calendar, but we were a week early.  I guess that’s better than being a week late, but it did make us feel like doddering oldsters. 

We decided to stay for dinner.  The menu is extensive, and the entrees are quite interesting and elegant.  There is no senior menu.  We tried to order dishes that seemed to be on the small side, but we still ended up with more than we could reasonably eat.  Dessert menu?  You’ve got to be kidding!  Please bring me a box.

I keep saying that someday I am just going to eat the salad and dessert and totally skip the main course, but I haven’t done that yet.  I expect I will do it someday, when I am old enough that I no longer care about social conventions.  I shudder to think what else I might do at that stage!

A Box of Beads

A box of beads,

Different colors, shapes and sizes,

Rolling around but

Confined to the container.

Randomly bouncing

Off each other.

No pattern emerging,

Emitting a noisy clatter.

Is that life?

Isolated, differing events

Kept together only by the confines

Of birth and death.

Or are those events

Strung together in a pattern,

Held by the invisible cord,

Of a world view.

I grieve for those I see,

Living scattered lives,

Empty-headed, hazy,

Thoughtless lives.

When they bounce off

The final edge of the box,

Will they look back on 

A life of unstrung beads?

Saving Someone from Themselves

Saving someone from themselves is a risky business.

I just returned from grocery shopping.  As I pushed my cart through the parking lot to my car, I noticed a van which seemed to be circling the parking lot.  I decided the driver must be looking for a spot near the entrance of the grocery store in an effort to minimize walking distance.

The driver, who was the lone occupant of the car, was a heavy set, gray-haired lady.  I have no idea of her exact age….she could be older or younger than me.  She had an oxygen cannula in her nose AND she was holding a cigarette.  Now maybe, the valve on the oxygen tank was closed.  I hope it was.  But having the window cracked open a bit was not going to protect her from the dangerous combination of oxygen and a smoldering cigarette.

I considered approaching the car and saying something like:  “I am really concerned about you.  I am a nurse and have a degree in chemistry, so I understand the danger of smoking around oxygen.  Please don’t run this risk for yourself.”

BUT

I know from difficult experience that not everyone appreciates being saved from their own questionable behaviors.  MYOB, said with anger is sometimes the result of what is meant as helpful, concerned intervention.

When my kids were in town for our anniversary, I happened to be standing close enough to hear someone say to two of them, “I love your mother….she has saved me from myself.”  The person, although younger than me, could be viewed as an authority figure over me.  When I approached him about something he had said which I believed was unwise, I did so somewhat fearfully.  I have had situations like this blow up in my face.  Men in authority are especially likely to resent a woman intervening.  Of course, so are people who already know that what they are doing is not in their best interest.  I suspect the lady in the van has heard it all before.

In any event, I did not approach the woman in the car, and I sincerely hope that the cigarette/oxygen combination won’t blow up in her face…literally!

Addendum:

OK...OK....If I am going to be "literal," oxygen would not "blow up" in this situation.  (Hydrogen would, but not oxygen.)What it would do is support combustion.  So if a very small fire began, it would erupt into a larger one.  The extent of the problem would also depend on the fabric content of the woman's clothing.  So it might give the appearance of blowing up given the right/wrong set of circumstances, but not be a blow up in the strictest definition of that term.  Now I feel better.

Is Your Body Your Own?

Is your body your own to do with as you please?

One of the phrases we are hearing frequently in connection with current events is that a woman’s body is her own, and that no one else has a right to control it.  We hear this in regard to the pro-choice movement and in connection with the rash of cases in which a woman has been sexually violated in some way.  Because violating a woman is obviously wrong and not to be tolerated, we could easily find ourselves nodding in agreement with the notion that a woman’s body is her own.

As a Christian, I want to remind myself that my body is actually NOT my own.  I do also understand that I cannot impose this view on those who are not believers. The one who does not accept Christ as his Savior, who does not accept that God has a claim on his life, is free to use and abuse his body.  He/She can cover it with piercings and tattoos, pump it full of drugs, alcohol or decadent desserts, have sex whenever, however and with whomever, or decide to live on kale.  There are, of course, consequences to our behaviors, and we humans are free to experience and deal with those natural results.

But, for the believer, our bodies are NOT our own.

Here are Paul’s words in I Corinthians 6:  Avoid sexual looseness like the plague!  Every other sin that a man commits is done outside his own body, but this is an offense against his own body.  Have you forgotten that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you, and is God’s gift to you, and that you are not the owner of your own body?  You have been bought, and at what a price!  Therefore, bring glory to God in your body. (Phillips’ Translation)

Note that this message is NOT just for women.  If we claim Christ as our personal Savior, he has redeemed us…that is, purchased us...with his blood.  He paid an enormous price!  He has a claim on us.  He expects us to take good care of the bodies he has given us, and not to use them for sinful purposes.  There are quite a few things that people seem to view as pleasurable and which they do not want to deny themselves, but which are clearly harmful.  We do not have a “right” to those things.

In Romans 12, Paul says:  With eyes wide open to the mercies of God I beg you, my brothers, as an act of intelligent worship, to give him your bodies, as a living sacrifice, consecrated to him and acceptable by him.  Don’t let the world around you squeeze you into its own mold, but let God remold your minds from within, so that you may prove in practice that the plan of God for you is good, meets all his demands and moves toward the goal of true maturity. (Phillips Translation)

So, if you are tempted to think your body is your own, think again.

And if someone else abuses what belongs to God, they will ultimately answer to him, which is going to be more difficult than answering to their victim or to those who enforce human law.  Oh, yes…they should be held accountable here and now, but public humiliation or jail time won’t wipe out their debt.

In Need of Rewiring

A couple of days ago, my husband mentioned that the lamp on his side of the bed wasn’t working.  It has a three-way switch, and the lamp was not working in any of the three settings.  He asked if I had a 3-way bulb to replace the burned out one.  It seemed odd to me that the entire bulb would burn out at the same time.  Usually in a 3-way, one of the elements burns out before the other so the lamp works in at least two of the three “on” positions.  I wondered if it was the lamp that had become defective.  Sure enough, he put in a new bulb, and it immediately blew.  So…it wasn’t the bulb.  It was the lamp itself.

At this point, it dawned on me that years roll by speedily, and the lamp must be at least 40 years old.  The base is still in great shape, but the wiring could certainly have an issue that would cause it to short out after that much time has passed.

So today, I trotted myself out to Home Depot and bought a lamp rewiring kit.  I disassembled the lamp trying to keep track of the positions of all the pieces.  It is a lovely large brass lamp with many pieces!  I laid them out carefully on the table.  I didn’t pay too much attention to the sequence in which I took pieces off…just their relative positions.  That was a mistake!  Since the replacement wire has to go through some pieces with small holes, and once you tie the “underwriter’s knot,” it’s not going through those holes, sequence is important.  Also, the center tube through which the wire goes has to be positioned allowing enough of the threads on the ends to protrude and screw into the pieces at the top and the bottom.  I ran out of hands to hold all of that in place simultaneously.

I finally had it all back together….I thought.  Whoops…there was a piece still laying on the table.  I had forgotten to replace the unit that holds the shade.  That required taking most of it apart again.  So after four rounds of disassembly and assembly, I plugged it in and it worked!

It’s gotten me to thinking though….how long will my personal wiring work before I short out?  I am amazed and grateful that after 73 years, everything still functions pretty well, and in spite of occasionally feeling like my circuits are over-loaded, I haven’t blown any fuses yet!

I guess some acquaintances probably think I’ve blown some fuses, but at least I haven’t had to be rewired.

Music

Nothing to which it can be compared,

No adequate words to portray,

With reckless abandon I jump into the stream,

Let the current sweep me away.

While the vibrations penetrate my body,

My heart syncing with the beat,

I drift on a tide of melody.

And thrill to the harmony’s heat.

But robbed by tremor and age,

The song is trapped inside.

Instead of bursting from heart and soul,

It leaks in drops from my eyes.