How to Tether to an O-2 Tank

About 4:30 this morning, I was lying awake when I heard a sound distressing to my nurse’s ears.  Our bedroom is at the back of our apartment.  The window was open a bit and faces the driveway of an adjacent apartment building.  The sound I heard was a man coughing, but not just any cough.  The cough exhibited the telltale sound of constricted airways.  I wondered if he was having an asthma attack.  I thought perhaps he was on the way to his car, but there was never the sound of a car door, and the concerning cough continued.

Eventually I got out of bed and peeked under the shade.  A man was standing on the small back porch of the building behind our apartment complex.  I watched for only a few seconds when I saw the flash of a lighter being used.  He was smoking.  Ah!  That was the explanation for the horrible cough.

I wanted to shout out the window…”Oh, please, mister.  Stop smoking!  Don’t you know you are already showing signs of COPD?  You will soon be tethered to an oxygen tank.”  But it was 4:30 AM, and I wasn’t sure who else I might awaken in our complex.  I was certain one of those disturbed would be my husband.  I also was fairly certain the guy wouldn’t think I was the voice of God or an angel giving him a message not to be ignored.  I was just a busybody old woman peeking out of her bedroom window.

I went back to bed thinking about the whole notion of smoking.  I grew up in a family with many smokers.  My paternal grandfather smoked cigars and died at 69.  My Dad smoked cigarettes until I was about 7 years old.  He quit and living to be almost 91.  My maternal grandfather smoked and died at 65.  My mother’s three brothers smoked and died at 50, 61 and 70.  Two of her brother’s wives smoked.  I am uncertain how old they were when their health deteriorated.  But, there certainly was a pattern in our family between smoking and not living to a ripe old age.

I saw so much smoking when I was little, that it is somewhat attractive to me.  The whole notion of having something in one’s mouth and manipulating the cigarette is something I can almost feel myself doing.  I certainly “smoked” candy cigarettes as a child and imitated the motions I had seen.  I have, however, never tried a single cigarette in my life.

I wonder if no one has worked on the idea of developing a cigarette than is pleasant to inhale, but which also delivers medication to open airways without filling the lungs with black goo.

Things to ponder when awake at night.

KTS Dre is Dead

KTS Dre is dead.  I had not heard of him before his name appeared in the news today.  He was released from Cook County Jail wearing an ankle monitor, and immediately gunned down in the street.  He was shot about 60 times.

KTS Dre was a rapper known in the Chicago area.  He probably had ambitions of being known more widely.  I guess now he is.  I wondered what KTS stood for, so I went internet searching.  KTS is a gang acronym for Kill To Survive…only he didn’t…survive, that is.  I suppose his murder was related to gang affiliation.

It makes me incredibly sad that there are young people in this world who have no hope, who see no future.  Their minds are filled with the chaotic noise of despair. They never make the connection between education, honest work, and success. They are looking for shortcuts to fortune and fame.  Do they really believe that one must kill or be killed?  That taking another’s life is the only way to guarantee one’s own survival.

 I wonder…did he grow up without a father?  Did he have a single mom who struggled and brought him up in poverty?  Did he see no way out?  Did he never hear the name of Jesus as anything other than a curse word?  Did he never have the opportunity to know Jesus and the freedom that relationship brings?  Was he unable to make wise choices…too overwhelmed by the tyranny of surviving in the moment to see the big picture?  Who taught him that KTS was an appropriate mantra?

How does one break the awful cycle of poverty, despair and violence?  The BLM movement is not going to accomplish it.  Regular infusion of money from the government is not going to accomplish it.  Free housing, education, and healthcare are not going to accomplish it.  The problem is in the heart of mankind. But fewer and fewer people believe that, and those of us who do are labeled as lunatic fringe.  I am not saying that we should abandon programs which meet human need.  I am saying that they do not touch the greater need of finding meaning and purpose in life.

I wish this young man had had a moment of mental clarity, had seen the possibility of being set free, had known Jesus.  He was busy wasting his life, but He was a black life that mattered to Jesus.

The Underboob???

I could never be accused of keeping up with the latest fashion trends, but I am surprised that I am just now hearing of something which has apparently been around for months, if not years.  Evidently it is popular with fashionistas, participants in sexy reality television shows, and, of course, the Kardashians.  It is called the “underboob.”

The idea is for someone who has perky boobs that stay mostly in place to display the underside below the nipple.  Allowing the upper boob to bulge out above one’s bra has been in vogue for centuries, but the underboob has come into view (pun intended) more recently.

Clearly this is for the young…very young…who are endowed adequately, but not overly.  I’m pretty sure it would not be deemed attractive for sagging double or triple Ds.  Underboob does NOT mean they sag so low that they can be tucked “under” the waistband of one’s slacks.  They must still stay within the normal vertical range of a boob, but they are allowed to peek out below a crop top or bulge out of the bottom of a bra-like top or band of fabric.  I assume if one goes for the crop-top peek, one must be careful not to raise one’s arms too high lest the underboob become an entire-boob exposure.

There are actually bras and bikini tops for sale that advertise they are intended to show underboob.  I probably live a sheltered life, but I haven’t seen one of these in public yet. If I do, I will be tempted to offer advice on how to find a bra that fits well and is comfortable.  I have spent years in that pursuit.  Clearly, they are not meant for comfort.  If combined with a thong, it would be double torture.  Having had the experience of an ill-fitting bra that allowed some sneakage below the band, I can testify that this is not pleasant.  Why someone would do this on purpose is beyond me.

But then, the older I get, the more that is beyond me.

Living Close to the Edge

Today I saw some people who I think are living “close to the edge.”  Close to the edge of what….illness, homelessness, disaster of some kind?

I had to pick up a few things and went to a local Walmart.  In the store, I passed a woman standing still and leaning heavily on her cart.  She was making a strange sound as though she was clearing her throat with every breath.  She did not look as though a collapse was imminent, so I walked on by listening for a worsening of the sounds.  Had I heard such, I would have turned around and asked her if she needed assistance.  I thought to myself, “this woman is teetering on the edge of a major physical problem.”

I had driven to the Walmart following Google maps over some back roads which I had not taken before.  On the way, I passed a strange sight.  Out in the middle of nowhere, I saw a young man with a cart heaped higher than he was tall.  The cart was not a grocery cart or a wagon.  I could tell by the wheels that it was a very sturdy cart, but the wheels were all I could see.  The mounded-up contents of the cart were covered with a large sheet of black plastic. The guy was just standing by the roadside as though he was waiting for someone.  When I passed him on the return trip, he was still there in the same place.  He had a large shaggy dog with him, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.  What was his story?  Was he homeless and the cart contained all his earthly possessions?  Was someone coming for him?  Had he slept in that field last night?

It has been a gray, dismal, rainy day here at the cottage.  So, when I discovered that my husband had forgotten to bring the medications he is supposed to take before bed, I said that I saw no reason for us not to drive back to our apartment and get them.  It is about an hour and 15 minutes each way, but we had nothing special we needed to do anyway.  Just before getting back to town, we passed through a very small hamlet…pretty much just four corners, although it has a convenience store and a bar.  I was driving, and I noticed a very frail elderly lady standing beside the road as though she wished to cross the busy highway.  She was wearing shorts and a scarf and had a purse hanging from her arm.  She walked so slowly that I was worried about her finding a big enough break between cars to cross.  We picked up the medications at the apartment along with a back rest pillow since Bill is having a lot of sinus drainage and being propped up might help.  We turned right around to head back.  The elderly woman was still at that intersection.  She had crossed to the other side and was standing in a parking lot near the highway looking confused.  Where does she belong?  Is she safe out on her own?  Why is she hanging out at this intersection?  I’m thinking she is a person in need of supervision.

As we go about our lives, we rarely know the story behind the people we pass.  Which ones need our help?  Which ones would accept our help?  We can’t reach out to everyone we meet.  Who is teetering on the edge? 

I guess there is a sense in which we all are “close to the edge.”  Some of us are just oblivious to it.

Accidentally Speaking the Truth

It fascinates me that a person, who has no intent to do so, can accidentally speak the truth.  The person may not mean to tell the truth, but it can come out of his mouth without even realizing it.  Sometimes the intent is actually evil.

I read an example of this in the Bible recently.  When the religious leaders were angry with Jesus and trying to figure out a way to kill him, they discussed the fact that if he stirred up the people, the Romans might crush them all.  Caiaphas, who was the high priest, declared that it would be good for one man to die for the sake of all.  He, of course, meant that if they killed Jesus, the Romans would not have an excuse to put down some sort of rebellion.  Rebellion of the Jews against Rome was never Jesus’ plan.  He knew that he would “die for the sake of all.”  That is, as a sacrifice for the sins of all.  Caiaphas told the truth accidentally.

I wish I had saved the Smithsonian article that inadvertently mentioned the truth.  I read it decades ago.  The frame of reference was evolution.  There was discussion about the organization of seeds in a pine cone.  Near the end of the article the author mentioned “Mother Nature’s” planned design.  Seriously!  If you can’t admit that there is a Creator with an intelligent design, you just anthropomorphize Mother Nature?  I think you have accidentally spoken the truth that there is an intelligent being behind the order in our world.

Yesterday, I read an article in Time magazine.  I was several paragraphs into the article before I realized that it was about one individual, but the person was being referred to with plural pronouns.  I understand this is sometimes part of the transgender identity and is characteristic of persons who don’t want to be defined by he/she.  I was struck though by the inconsistency of the person.  More than once in the article, quotations included the singular pronoun “my.”  If this person is a “they,” why do they not use the plural possessive pronoun “our.”  I’m sure this will make any “theys” angry, but it appears to me as an accidental speaking of the truth. 

Not everything a misguided person says is wrong.

Not everything said by a person who believes he is a truth-teller is right.

It is up to the individual to be discerning….but how?  I believe in a God who defines Truth and has revealed it through His Word.  Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)

Retarded?

I don’t particularly like Chuck Schumer or the policies he favors, but I am annoyed that he is currently being criticized for using the word “retarded.”  The word is not in and of itself a derogatory term.  It has only become one over the years.

To be “retarded” really means nothing more than being delayed in one’s development or progress.  Its actual meaning is no worse than “handicapped” or “disabled” or “differently abled” or whatever term is currently politically correct.   Somehow along the way, someone decided to say, “you are retarded!” or what a “retard!” with a tone and facial expression that indicated distain.  Unfortunately, it caught on.  So now, even if one says the word in a neutral way or even in a caring tone, it is interpreted as intending disrespect.  However, any politically correct term could also be said in a condescending tone.

It is fascinating that the meaning of words can evolve.  It used to be that “awesome” was reserved for the glory of God or His amazing handiwork in nature.  Over the years it has become so cheapened that it has barely any meaning…. “Oh….awesome, Dude,” for anything slightly above the expected level. 

When I was growing up, there was a child a bit younger than I who attended my church.  I now realize he must have had Down’s syndrome.  At the time, people said he was “retarded.”  But, he was loved and cared for not only by his family, but by the church community.  Going back to visit the church as an adult, I realized he was warmly embraced as a real part of the fellowship.  He was given jobs to do which were within his abilities.  He ushered and took up the offering.  He greeted people with a broad smile. The label placed on him or the way it may have changed over the years was irrelevant.

As Shakespeare’s Juliet said, “What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” 

I’m pretty sure that a skunk by any other name would smell as bad too.

3 Girls Alone for the First Time

We have three daughters, who are now 49, 48 and 47.  This morning I was remembering the first time we left them alone without a babysitter, thinking they would be safe by themselves…as long as they didn’t get into a fight.  As it turned out, they were safe because they were occupied in a cooperative effort to play tricks on us.

When we arrived home that evening, all was well in the downstairs of the house…not so much upstairs.  We lived in an old Victorian home with a long hall running down the center of the upstairs.  On each side of the hall, there were 2 bedrooms with a bathroom in between.  An additional room had a door into both the master bedroom and the hall.  This created a fun maze for children to run through and play hide and seek.  Being too old for such games, the three decided on another one.  They took balls of yarn and strung them in and out and through the rooms of the upstairs and the hall creating a tangled and impassable web.  But, that was only the beginning.

After making it successfully into our room, we turned on the light switch and were greeted with blaring music.  They had unplugged the lamp which was on the switch and plugged in a tape recorder with the volume as loud as it would go.

Although this was all amusing, I kept a straight face until I got into the bathroom.  The fuzzy cover for the toilet seat was in the tub and was soaking wet.  When I asked why, I got the following explanation.  They had decided that if they put the lid of the toilet up and covered the actual seat with the fuzzy cover, one of us (probably me) would come in to use the toilet, lift the seat thinking it was the lid, and try to sit down expecting the seat to be there, when in fact, it was only the ceramic bowl.  They pictured me falling in.  However, after they considered this, they thought it would only work if the room was dark, so they decided to unscrew the light bulb that was on the switch.  They couldn’t reach it…so forgetting what they had already set up…Laura attempted to stand on the toilet seat and fell feet first into the toilet bowl.  Thus, the soaking wet cover which they tossed in the tub.  Picturing Laura falling feet first into the toilet was too much for me to keep the straight face…I howled with laughter.

They were quite pleased with themselves, especially since they knew they had one more prank we had not yet found.  When we tried to crawl in the bed that night, we discovered they had “short-sheeted” the bed.

Working together on the project had kept them from fighting while we were gone.  I laughed then, and I’m smiling thinking about it now.