Letting the Music Carry Me

I love music and have from my earliest memories.  I still remember songs my mother sang to me when I was a toddler and songs I learned in kindergarten.  When I awaken during the night, I often find that I am in the middle of a song that is playing like background music in my mind.  I sang my first solo at church when I was 7 or 8.  I still remember the words to "I'll Be a Sunbeam."  I sang so many solos throughout my life that I couldn't possibly guess at the number, nor could I tell you my favorite song.


I lost my singing voice about 10 years ago.  By that I mean that my voice has become so unreliable that I have no idea what will come out when I open my mouth in an attempt to sing.  I might be able to sing a few lines almost as well as decades ago, but then the sound may deteriorate into a shaky old lady warble, or no sound at all.


I don't know how to explain the sense of loss this creates.  There used to be a connection between what I knew in my mind and felt in my heart and my vocal chords, so that the expressions of my soul flew out of my mouth and filled up a room even without amplification.  The connection is broken.  While it is true that a bit over 10 years ago, an experience crushed something at my very core, it is also true that age and a degenerative condition inherited in my family are probably the major contributors to this loss.  Whatever the cause, I now stand in church wishing I could lift my voice, but unable to do so.


When my daughters were teenagers, one Sunday we were traveling in another state and visited a church we had never been in before.  We were a few minutes late and the service had already begun.  The congregation was attempting to sing, but no strong voice led them.  The singing was tentative and spiritless.  I knew the song and began to sing before I picked up the hymn book.  An immediate change occurred.  I could feel the impact my voice was having on the group.  People began to sing out confidently following my lead.  After the service, one of my daughters asked me if I realized what happened when I began to sing.  I did.  I'm sure some would think this made me proud, but that is not what I felt either on that occasion or others when I was aware of this phenomenon.  I could help other people express themselves.  My voice could carry them along and allow them to worship as they would desire to worship.  I delighted in being able to help a group in this way.  Now when my own congregation falters on a new song, I feel as though I am letting them down.  I want to help.  It is in my heart to help, but my vocal chords no longer cooperate.


Recently I had the experience of being at a concert with brass instruments.  Brass instruments are not quiet...they are overpowering.  The audience was invited to sing along on some of the familiar pieces.  It was actually wonderful not to be able to hear the sound of my own voice because of the blaring brass.  I did not know if I was singing well or quavering or if no sound was coming out at all.  Perhaps I was only mouthing the words, but my eyes filled with tears as I let the music carry me along.  I pictured myself standing on the sidelines in heaven as a procession passed by.  Jesus Himself was the focus of the procession and my voice or my silence melding into the triumphant sound.  


I don't have any reason to expect to die soon, and I would not do anything to hasten it, but I do look forward to the day when the expression of my soul will fly out of me again.

Who was Sheerah?

I have read through the Bible several times.  Sometimes I have skipped over the genealogies rationalizing that they are long lists of nearly unpronounceable names of obscure people, and they are irrelevant to doctrine or my life.


Recently I read the list of Ephraim's descendants in I Chronicles 7:24:  His daughter was Sheerah, who built Lower and Upper Beth Horon as well as Uzzen Sheerah.


Many times biblical genealogies only include male descendants.  Only occasionally are the names of wives included.  But, here is a daughter who is not only mentioned, but who is credited with building three communities.


Who was Sheerah?  She lived thousands of years ago in a middle eastern land where women were supposedly  thought of as property.  How did she rise above the accepted role for her gender?


Exactly what does it mean that she built these three communities?  She must have been assertive and resourceful, a person of intelligence and organizational skills who was both knowledgeable and wise.  Did she offend people...especially men...in the process of exercising her gifts?


I like strong women. I have been accused of being a strong woman. I have good friends who are strong women.  I would have liked to have known Sheerah.  It is probably lucky for my daughters that I didn't happen on this fragment of a story before they were born.  One of them might have ended up named....


SHEERAH!

What's wrong with being an enabler?

I am seriously miffed with the psycho-socio disciplines for hijacking a perfectly good word like "enable" and giving it a negative connotation.


If you provide more assistance to someone than a practicing member of one of those disciplines believes is appropriate, you are (gasp!) an "enabler."  The implication is that you are crippling the person you mean to help and causing them never to be able to function on their own.


How does any compassionate person stand back and watch someone fall on his face over and over until it becomes quite clear, he simply can't function without help?  Refraining from assisting is particularly troublesome when there are children who are going to suffer because of a non-functional or marginally functional adult.  When does "tough love" become cold-heartedness?  Is fear of being an "enabler" ever a cover for fear of having someones needs negatively impact my own pleasant life?


I choose to think of enabling as providing the assistance a person needs to survive in this world.  I am not talking about providing a cushy lifestyle to someone who is just lazy.  I am talking about helping with the basic needs of life....food, clothing and shelter...for someone who just can't seem to acquire the basics on his or her own.  I don't see this as optional.  I think offering assistance is an obligation.  If God places a need squarely in front of me, and I have the means to meet that need, I think I am in the wrong to look the other way.


So...
Have I purchased a meal for someone begging on the street?  Yes
Have I purchased and delivered baby formula to someone who was begging on the street?  Yes
Have I loaned money knowing full well that it was actually a gift, rather than a loan?  Yes
Have I at times provided family members with a vehicle or a place to live?  Yes
Has this including paying someones rent for them?  Yes
Purchasing a vehicle for them or giving them my old one?  Yes
Have I purchased a refrigerator for a single dad with two kids and no way to keep milk from spoiling?  Yes
Have I anonymously slipped money to someone in need?  Yes
Have I provided someone with a ride to the grocery store or to the jail to visit a friend or heaven only knows where else?   Yes


Have I every had someone tell me with a grave expression that I might just be an enabler?  Yes


Do I care?   
NO NO NO


But, I hasten to add that I will not lie for someone.  I will not ignore bad conduct.  I will not "enable" someone to keep doing what is wrong by covering up their past misdeeds.  I do attempt to mitigate the negative impact of poor choices on innocent people who are caught in the quagmire caused by someone else's faulty decisions.  I know some people who can create more messes than I can clean up...but I keep trying to provide protection from the fallout for innocent bystanders.

Who Has the Next Line?

Last night I dreamt that I was in a stage play.  In the middle of the performance with about six actors on stage, a long and dreadful silence occurred.  Someone had forgotten his or her line.  I was fairly sure that it wasn’t I, but I was unsure who was responsible for the break in dialogue.

I tried so hard to remember what the next line was, so that I could whisper it.  I wondered why the prompter wasn’t feeding the line to the actor.  I tried to think of something to say that fit in with the scene and would help us get back on track.  I feared that if I said the wrong thing someone would pick up with a line from the next act and the situation would be irretrievable.

I was holding a very old book in my hands.  The book was small and narrow…taller than it was wide.  The cover was thick and stained.  The pages were yellowed and ragged.  I tried to search through the book without being obvious to the audience.  I thought maybe the next line was in the book.

The on-stage silence dragged on and on.  The audience remained quiet.  Eventually the entire scene drifted away without resolution.

When I woke up this morning, I kept thinking about the dream and wondering if it had meaning.

Which actor has forgotten the line?

If he or she waits too long to speak, should I say something? 

What if I say the wrong thing and life goes off in some crazy unintended direction?

Where is the prompter?

Is there an answer in the ancient book?

Who has the next line?

The Odds Are Against Me Dying Quietly in My Bed

I think the odds are against me dying quietly in my bed.


The temperature today is in the 70s and there doesn't seem to be a hint of rain.  I decided it was a good day to wash the windows....or at least as much of the windows as I can reach.  That would be all of the windows on the inside, but only some of the windows on the outside.  Many of the windows roll out in such a way that the outside surfaces can be washed from the inside.  I consider this is a good thing, because I am dependent on my husband to climb a ladder and do the outside. Given his amazing tolerance for dirty windows, that isn't likely to happen as speedily as I would wish.


The project went along well in the guest bedroom, master bedroom, bathroom and dining room.  When I got to the living room, I noted that the windows that could be cranked outward were wider than those in the other rooms.  I stood on the floor inside, reaching and stretching and deciding that I could indeed reach the farthest point on the windows.  I placed my little stool close to the wall and started at the top.


As I reached my maximum stretch, the stool shot backward on the hardwood floor and disappeared from under me.  My body shot forward into the opening which was plenty wide enough for me to fall out.  I saved myself by spreading my arms, scraping my elbows and hand in the process, but at least I didn't fall out. My glasses, however, got knocked off my face and fell out the window into the bushes below.


Without my glasses I am pretty much blind....I can barely make out the big E on the vision chart.  I was so intent on finding my glasses in the bushes that I didn't pay attention to the position of the rolled out window.  After retrieving my glasses, I stood up under the window and cracked my head.  I returned to the house muttering, "Comedy of Errors."


I finished the living room windows and decided to call it a day.  But that still leaves me with windows in the kitchen, family room, and downstairs guest room.  It also leaves me with the outside surfaces I couldn't reach.  I guess I'm not really dependent on my husband to climb the ladder.  I could do that!


I don't really want to die quietly in bed anyway.

The Rhubarb Pie Diet

This morning when I stepped on the scale, I was delighted to see I have recently lost 2 pounds.  


I became overweight between high school and the end of nursing school.  I  lost the extra and a bit more while in college and had no trouble maintaining an ideal weight until I hit my late 50s.  Ever since that fateful day when my doctor said I had to stop hormone replacement therapy, I have struggled with creeping weight gain. I am still not to the point where my BMI indicates I am "overweight," but I am too close for comfort.


About a week ago, I had an abundance of rhubarb, even though I had already made rhubarb bread, rhubarb sauce, rhubarb jam and rhubarb squares, so I broke down and made my favorite...rhubarb custard pie.  I left off the top crust, figuring that would at least cut down on a few calories.  Over the past week, I have eaten the entire pie myself....my husband doesn't really care for it.  I have accomplished this mighty feat by eating a slice every morning for breakfast.


So...when I stepped on the scale and discovered I had lost weight, I immediately thought, "Ha!  I will become a famous and wealthy weight loss guru.  I will write books and blogs and advocate rhubarb pie for breakfast as a weight loss strategy!"


In the shower, with the warm water running over my addled brain, I had two thoughts...
Oh wait...this is not scientifically valid...remember that blog you just wrote about correlation and causation?
But then, I thought, on the other hand, maybe it wasn't the rhubarb pie for breakfast.  Maybe it was the radish sandwiches for lunch!

Correlation does not imply causation

The May 2012 issue of National Geographic contains an article on “The Common Hand.”  It also contains a logical fallacy.

The author writes, “The hand is so remarkable that the great Scottish surgeon Sir Charles Bell wrote an entire book in 1833 praising it…At the time, the notion that life evolved was beginning to circulate, but Bell thought a close look at the human hand would dispel such silly talk……There’s just one problem with Bell’s argument:  It didn’t explain why other species have hands too.”

He goes on to explain that Darwin noted that “the hand of man formed for grasping, that of a mole for digging, the leg of the horse, the paddle of the porpoise, and the wing of the bat” all being constructed in the same pattern would be an odd “coincidence.”  He then assumes in the next paragraph that the hand “evolved.”

I am familiar with this argument.  As a high school tutor, I have seen the textbook pictures of the bat wing, whale flipper, and human hand compared and yes, they do each contain five appendages, whether this is obvious from exterior appearance or not.

But…

Most cars have four wheels and no one argues that they evolved that way.  Designers of automobiles figured out that this worked best in creating a stable vehicle whether intended to be a little red wagon or an Indie car.  True, some vehicles have more or less….but some “hands” have more or less appendages also.

Believing that correlation implies causation seems to be a common problem with evolutionists.  It is every bit as logical to think that whoever designed the hand was bright enough to realize that it was a good design and that it was economical and advantageous to reuse the basic design and adapt it to a variety of settings.

I know that I cannot prove creation or intelligent design from the intricacies of the hand.

I just wish those who believe in evolution wouldn’t assume that they can prove their point based on correlation.