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summer so far

Posted in Faith, Family, WTF Disease on July 26, 2008| 36 Comments »

Just wanted to check in before I go on vacation. Yes, it looks like vacation is really going to happen. Yay! This trip is what Jif wanted for his 50th birthday, and I have feared I wouldn’t be able to participate, but I will. Summer has been pretty good so far. LG has been in day camps, most recently a debate camp. We went yesterday to see what she’d learned, and it was so exciting. She has a natural talent, we believe. She’s not so sure she’ll pursue it further. It’s tough, as a parent, knowing where that line is between nudging a child to develop natural gifts and stepping back. Watching kids debate was highly entertaining. One boy, who had “R” trouble (kids with R twouble melt my heawt) was so cute. He kept saying, “I win this debate, because my awguments aw the most pewsuasive and impowtant!” LG seemed very scholarly, arguing against offshore oil-drilling, right up until the time she countered an opponent with, “Birds don’t fly well when their wings are covered with oil!” Perhaps not intellectual, but by gosh, I defy you to prove she’s wrong about that! Jif and I just looked at each other and nodded, eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Can’t argue with that.”

I continue to struggle with WTF. I did see a new doc, and had some new tests. It’s all sort of on the fringe of traditional medicine, and it’s a little frightening, frankly. I’ll write more about it in a couple of weeks. For now, I’ll just say it is a (thin) ray of hope about a possible diagnosis and treatment. Please continue to pray for my healing, and for clarity and wise decision-making regarding the treatments that are being offered. My next appointment is in late August. I do thank you all for your expressions of concern, your leads to more info, and your prayers.

I’ll tell you about vacation when I get back. Hopefully with lots of photos. We all SO need a break from the day-to-day. Thankful we can take it. In fact, it’s all about being thankful. This morning I had trouble getting down the stairs, and it is very easy, especially early in the morning when WTF is raging, to start thinking about being a sick person. But I said, no, I choose not to think about being a sick person. I choose to call myself a blessed person, a person who can go on a wonderful vacation with people she loves. This is my constant discipline and occupation, friends, this pushing aside the ill thoughts and magnifying the blessed thoughts. You’d think I’d be good at it by now, but I’m not yet. It seems I am being given plenty of time to master that; like kids with disabilities get extra time on tests. I’m special that way 😉

Big hugs to you if you’re still coming around.

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A Mom Rant

Posted in Can't Make This Stuff Up, Faith, Family, I'm Just Sayin'..., Meta-blogging on May 18, 2008| 38 Comments »

LG has an Iranian friend, a little girl called Parastoo. That’s her real name; concerned about privacy, I Googled, and it’s a very common Iranian/Persian name, so no secrets revealed here. Parastoo and her family are Muslim.

We live in a very culturally, racially, religiously diverse area. We sought this area out, as part of our … “parenting plan,” for lack of a better term. We think it’s good for kids (and adults) to learn to live comfortably and well with those different from them (they? we’uns?). Neither my nor Jif’s family of origin would necessarily support or even understand our thought processes on this matter.

LG’s science teacher is a very cute young man. I suspect he’s also a rather lazy young man, because he is a big fan of the dreaded group project. Assigning four students to a group project cuts his grading time by 75%, if my middle school math serves me here. So, recently, LG, Parastoo, Allegra and Sara were put together to do a group project. Much to my dismay, these group projects must always be worked on outside of school. This means that the parents of these 12-year-olds must host, transport, etc., in order to facilitate the completion of the project.

On a recent “professional day,” a Friday with no school, LG’s little group arranged to meet at Allegra’s house from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. I’m not a big fan of the group project, probably because my child’s temperament is much like mine was at her age. That is to say, she is unassertive to the point of not preventing others from taking advantage of her, and grades are important to her. This translates into her doing whatever is required to get a good grade on the project, regardless of what the other group members put in/put out or don’t. The other thing about these group get-togethers is that they’re unproductive. They are, in truth, the equivalent of tween playdates, where not much gets accomplished, and the group will invariably end up scrambling to complete their project via phone, email, stolen moments before school, and the like.

Still, I did my part. I went in one direction to pick up Parastoo, while Allegra’s mom (you met her here) drove in the other direction to pick up Sara, and all convened at Allegra’s house. Four hours later, I arrived to pick up LG and Parastoo. Allegra’s mom, whom I actually like, whom I believe has a good heart (but who has apparently no authority over her child, never has had, and I can see why, but that’s a post for another time), took me aside before she called the girls up from the basement project center.

“I need to let you know there was a little accident,” she says, conspiratorially.

This, this is not a thing I like to hear from this woman. “Oh?”

“The girls were working on the computer and Allegra didn’t want LG to ‘enter’ something she was about to enter, so Allegra went to stop her and accidentally elbowed LG in the nose.”

Accidentally? When trying to physically prevent LG from doing something?

She went on, “LG’s eyes watered, I know it really hurt. I told Allegra to apologize, but she wouldn’t. She said it wasn’t her fault. I tried to explain to her that while it wasn’t intentional, it was her responsibility, and even when we accidentally hurt someone, we apologize, but she refused . . . you know how they are . . . ”

I know how YOUR KID is. “Oh. [Subscribing to the “just say ‘oh'” school of getting along with your child’s peers’ parents serves me in good stead, most of the time.] Well, thank you for letting me know what happened.”

Then the girls come upstairs, after having slaved for four hours on their project, and they show me . . . nothing. They have “ideas.” I was not surprised. I was, however, surprised by Allegra’s next move. “Miss Susan,” she says coyly, brushing back her Emo bangs and smiling broadly, “since we have a lot more work to do, is it OK if we have a sleepover tonight?” WTF? Is it OK if you don’t try to break my kid’s face and then not apologize for it? Could she even survive a sleepover with you?

“No. I mean, it’s OK for you to have a sleepover, of course, but LG isn’t allowed to sleep over tonight. We have a lot to do, and she’s been here pretty much the whole day.” This does not sit well with Allegra. This word, this “NO,” it’s not one of which she has a firm grasp.

We take our leave, not a moment too soon. First, though, I speak to Sara, whom I’d never met before. I wave through the open storm door, “Oh, Sara, it’s very nice to have met you. I’d never met either you or Parastoo before today, even though I’ve heard nice things about you.”

Then Allegra’s mom calls out to Parastoo, already on the sidewalk with LG, “Oh, that’s right. I’ve never met you before, either. So nice to meet you, Saradoo.” SARADOO? The two girls left inside crack up. The two on the sidewalk look embarrassed. The one old chick on the sidewalk is stunned, but before I could react at all, Mama Allegra kicks it up a notch. “Oh, Susan, did you know that Sara here is Presbyterian?” No. Never met her, certainly never inquired as to her religious affiliation. Mama Allegra continues, “So I told them that these three [here she points a finger, swirling it around to indicate Allegra, Sara and LG] can get together and do Presbyterian things!”

Oh. My. God. I am certain, and I am not sorry, that I did not hide the look of shock and horror on my face. I turned to the little Muslim girl on the sidewalk beside me, who met my eyes and then looked at the ground. What in the hell are “Presbyterian things?” I looked at Mama Allegra, speechless. “I mean,” she stammered, “like going to camp, retreats, things like that . . . ”

“Oh.” Long, uncomfortable pause. “OK, then. Thanks for hosting! ‘Bye now.”

What is wrong with people? I swear, this is not the only parent of my child’s friends who is this clueless, this utterly insensitive. PRESBYTERIAN THINGS? WOW. What if we did, oh, say, Christian things? Like not being exclusive? Like practicing hospitality?

I do not know if I can get my child raised and launched without having the two of us become absolute social outcasts.

OK. Blogging is therapeutic. I know why this is all hitting me so hard, seeming so insurmountable. It just hit me as I finished writing this. The one and only mom I’ve met in this community who shares my values, my beliefs about raising kids, is moving. To the other side of the Atlantic. For three years. In less than a month. Oh, G. I will miss you and your family so. I’ve been blessed by your friendship. And I have no “replacement” for it.

And now, I’ll take my WTF-riddled, pneumonia-afflicted ass back into blog sabbatical. Until the next thing pushes too many buttons to ignore.

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Ten Things About Me #8

Posted in About Me, Faith, Family, WTF Disease on January 30, 2008| 41 Comments »

(CAUTION: This one ain’t pretty. It’s kind of gritty. If you’re looking for witty, this is not the right city. Um…sorry. I’ll stop that now. But really, this is heavy. Especially the last one.)

71. Since reading blogs, I’ve encountered a lot of anti-Christian sentiment, passion, furor. I often wonder what has been done to those folks, in the name of Christianity. And I’m sorry for whatever it is. And I wish they (both the “victims” and the “perpetrators”) could separate the acts of the humans from the acts and the person of Christ.

72. The Bible is very important to me. I read it (not as much as I should or as much as I still aspire to); I quote it; I’ve given Bibles as gifts. But one thing I can truly say I have never ever done, is thump a Bible. I have thumped a melon. I have thumped someone on the head. But no Bible.

73. I’m of the belief that if you don’t vote, you forfeit any legitimate right to bitch about the outcome of elections. And I also think if you do vote, and things don’t turn out the way you want, bitching for four to six years is perhaps not the best use of your political energy.

74. I flow between “knowing” that I do have ALS, and “knowing” that of course, I don’t. And on the days when I’m pretty sure I do, I flow between panicked fear and faith-filled peace with whatever and however it’s going to be. I have an appointment in mid-February at an ALS center. I would surely love to find another diagnosis before that appointment comes up.

75. In light of WTF Disease, I have a lot of regrets about how I’ve lived life to this point. Mostly about things I haven’t done. I really want enough health, and enough time, to get those things done. Before I’m done. Here.

76. I don’t see my mother often, because one of my brothers is an active, rageful addict who lives in her home, and she won’t throw him out. I won’t put myself or my family in proximity to that mess. She knows why I don’t come around, and she still allows him to be there. She can’t put him out. He’s her (42-year-old) baby. It all makes her sad. Me, too. Oh, just in case you wondered, making this choice for myself and my family is not one of the things I regret.

77. Sometimes I wonder, if my time really is limited by WTF Disease, is blogging a good way to spend it? I can argue both sides. Here I am, at least for today. (My illness has made me more mindful that everyone’s time is limited, and every day would be well-lived as though we don’t get another.)

78. I like jewelry. And makeup. I don’t wear much of either. Although I keep meaning to. And I will. Like eyeliner. I’ve never in my life worn eyeliner, unless I was just playing in makeup. But I see so many people who won’t leave home without it. I might be old enough to wear eyeliner now. (Ha! She decides this when her arms and hands don’t work right half the time. This oughtta be pretty . . .)

79. I have never been patient with complainers, and unfortunately, my illness has made me less so. Usually no one knows this except me and God. It takes the form of, “Do you know how THRILLED I would be if I knew that all I had was [fill in the blank with any illness that doesn’t leave you drooling, paralyzed, mute, feeding-tubed, suffocating, etc.]?” I don’t say that. And I’m not proud of the fact that I think it. I’ll have to get over that. And I will.

::clarification:: I’m not talking about someone who is in a bad situation (physically, financially, relationally, whatever), and talks about it to vent or explain, or get support. We all need to be able to do that, from time to time. I’m talking about incessant whining, “my misery is worse than yours,” etc. I’m more of a “serenity prayer” mindset. If the situation sucks, have I done all I can do about it? If not, I need to do what I can. If I really can’t do anything, I need to try to turn my attention elsewhere. Whining just fertilizes the growth of negativity. Having researched so many illnesses in the past couple of years, I’ve been struck by how much of what we complain about is so lightweight, in the whole scheme of things. If we have the ability to gripe, and some sort of audience who will listen, we’re really quite blessed, relatively speaking.::end clarification::

80. I am seriously way too fat. It has never concerned me, particularly. But now it does. And now exercise is somewhere between difficult and unwise (I fall, can’t use various parts, etc.). This is one of my regrets. I hope I have a chance to fix that. Because I surely will, if given the chance.

UPDATE: I think this is the weight loss plan I will attempt, the one described by one of my all-time favorite comedians, Richard Jeni, may he rest in peace:
(This is R-rated)

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Honk if You Dig Jesus

Posted in About Me, Faith, Memes, Partial Nudity on June 28, 2007| 48 Comments »

Years ago, I was stopped at a redlight, reading the bumper stickers on the car in front of me. One of them read, “Honk if you love Jesus!” I happily, impulsively honked. And then observed the enthusiastically proffered middle finger of the motorist ahead of me. “Oh,” I thought, “must not be your car.”

Today I visited Lynn, who also encouraged me to honk if I love Jesus. Sorta. She offered a meme, The Jesus Meme, which is “five things I dig about Jesus.” I really like what Lynn did with it, and I decided to give it a try.

1. He speaks to people in their own language. Not Aramaic. I mean, he met people where they were. If you were a farmer, he told you stories about farming. If you were a tax collector, he used money stories. A fisherman, he told you about fishing. He exemplified my Mom’s teaching, “You treat the janitor the same as the governor.” He spoke to people who were “beneath” him. Because he knew they weren’t. And he wasn’t afraid to confront people “above” him. Because there’s no such person. He showed us how to do these things. God, I love that man.

2. He is steadfast. As a child growing up in an often chaotic environment, this knowledge was one of the things that made me decide to stick to him like glue. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever (Hebrews 13:8). No need for anyone to wonder what kind of mood he’s in, whether he’s been drinking, whether he’s mad at me today. Steady. Like a rock.

3. He understands what we’re going through. This is especially meaningful to me as I continue to endure WTF Disease. I haven’t yet found another human who knows what all these various bizarre symptoms feel like. But the one who is both creator and human being, would know (Hebrews 2:14-18, 4:14-16). That comforts me. I’m not alone.

4. Jesus loves me, this I know. I dig that I am unconditionally loved. Humans talk about this, but I don’t believe we can pull it off. Oh, we try. And if we really do try, we can manage it a good percentage of the time. But not always. Even parental love, which probably comes closest, is sometimes qualified with the knowledge that if that little (or big) miscreant weren’t our own flesh and blood, he or she would sorely test our love ability. There’s a condition — you’re my kin. It does me immeasurable good to be loved when I am at my most unlovable. Which, frankly, is most of the time, lately.

Some people talk about Jesus dying — being beaten, spat on, crucified, as evidence of his love. All the things that were depicted in Mel Gibson’s movie (during much of which I buried my face in Jif’s shoulder; I’m not interested in seeing the violence). For some people, that is sufficient evidence of this extraordinary, supernatural kind of love. Not for me. Frankly, others have suffered, and do suffer, worse physical afflictions. Some even voluntarily, in the name of love. No, for me, what really made it sink in, what he did for me, was a sermon that I heard when I was eleven years old. I have never heard it presented in quite the same way since. But here’s the gist of it: When Christ allowed himself to be killed to pay for the sins of mankind, he took on himself, into himself, those sins. Think of the worst you can think of. Genocides, child abuse . . . the worst. He took all of that onto himself, in our place. And not only those acts. But also the shame that accompanies such acts. And all the suffering that ripples out for generations to come, from such acts. And all the pain that preceded, that set in motion, that created beings who would perpetrate such acts. He became all of that (2 Corinthians 5:21) so that we can be reconciled to a perfect, holy God. For me, it is that unimaginable psychic suffering, soul suffering, that he endured, that speaks much louder of love than any level of physical torture could speak. I choose to believe it happened the way I’ve read that it happened. And that it meant what that sermon so long ago said that it meant. Greater love has no one, before or since (John 15:12-13) .

5. He is mysterious. Years ago, when LG was in preschool, I invited the children of one of the moms I had befriended, to attend Vacation Bible School with LG. Over the years, we have invited children of various religions and none at all to attend VBS with us. But that particular year, I admit, I was making an assumption about the children we were inviting. The father had a very German name, and the mother had a very Irish name, and I assumed they were Christian. What’s more, I assumed either Lutheran or Roman Catholic. I was wrong. She declined my invitation, saying that she didn’t want her children to learn the fairy tale of God. She and her husband had decided to be, and raise their children as, atheists, and they wanted no interference with their plan. I confessed to, and apologized for, my assumption. And she allowed that actually, I was right, in terms of how they’d been raised: Lutheran and Roman Catholic. But she said that in college, her husband had done exhaustive intellectual research which led him to the absolute knowledge that God does not exist. Alrighty, then.

What I didn’t say to her, but what I will say now, is . . . that doesn’t work. I am all in favor of intellectual research. In favor of critical thinking. Of skepticism, even. But applying the powers of the intellect to matters of the soul . . . that will always fall short. To me, that is comparable to the difference between understanding the chemical composition of chocolate, and actually feeling that chocolate melt in your mouth, tasting the sweet, the bitter, the creamy. Even if you can recite the chemical composition backwards and forwards, you don’t know chocolate through the intellect. It doesn’t compute. At least, you don’t know it in its entirety. Another example: you can intellectually explore the act of jumping into a clear lake on a hot day. You can understand the physics of how you get there — the trajectory of the jump, the force required to overcome gravity on your way there . . . and you can understand the physiological, biological changes of the various anatomical systems as your body goes from hot to cool, dry to wet. That’s all good. But it’s not the same as knowing what it’s like to jump into a cool lake on a hot day. You’ve used the wrong tools, or at least, lesser tools, if you’re trying to really know that experience. God — Jesus — can be understood through the intellect. But that’s not how we’re made. God is spirit. Meant to be experienced and understood spiritually. Through faith. Faith is the method through which we best know God. Certainly we should use the other methods — intellect, emotion, whatever you choose — but you haven’t fully experienced God without doing so via your spirit. Your soul. That’s what I believe.

Perhaps this is as good (or bad) a place as any to say something that I often think when I see comments from those who don’t believe. Very, very often, since I began blogging, I’ll see people comment on the site of a “believer,” and say something like, “I wish I had faith like you do,” or “I wish I believed in something like you do…” And I think, “Just do it.” Let me explain. Some people believe in God (as a Christian, I believe in the mystery of the Trinity — God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit are One) because they “came to believe.” That is, a series of life experiences, perhaps even some mystical or miraculous experiences, led them to believe. Many more people, though, choose to believe. They decide to believe. There really is no wishing required. If you want to do it, do it. It is a choice. A decision. I do believe that when people make that decision, it is as a result of the Holy Spirit inviting them. And that can happen in more ways than I can imagine. But bottom line, it’s a choice that we have the power and ability and freedom to make. Or not. If you’re wondering whether it’s for you, I would suggest a test. For a week, behave as though you do believe. See how that works for you.

I don’t feel, never have felt, compelled to try to persuade anyone else to believe what I believe. I’ve never spoken as explicitly on this blog, of (some of) what I believe, as I am speaking here today. And it’s fine by me if you don’t agree with a word of it. That’s between you and God. Or just between you and yourself.

Anyone (religious, not, whatever) is welcome to do the meme. Or leave in the comments here what, if anything, you “dig” about Jesus.

***

And with that, I’m outta here. I have an opportunity (read “invitation requiring very little $”) to visit a state I’ve never visited before, staying in a friend’s 200-year-old cottage for the coming week, so I am doing my darnedest to get me and the fam together to go and do just that. Hope to leave some time over the weekend. The place is not near any of you, to my knowledge, or I would have told you. Indeed, I don’t think I have ever seen the state represented in my sitemeter stats. So when I get back, I think I’ll post some pictures so you can guess where we were. Won’t that be FUN? (Shut up.) And the handful of you whom I’ve told where I’m going, “Shhh!”

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A Little Something Different

Posted in Faith, Sunday Post on April 15, 2007| 17 Comments »

I got nothin’. I could come up with just any old picture, and quote, and scripture. But believe it or not, every Sunday Post I’ve ever done has had some inspiration, some actual meaning for me on that day, at that time. Today, I got nothin’. I am sick, and sad, and weary. There’s the health thing, there are family things, there are friend things . . . blech. I do remain thankful; I know my blessings far outweigh my troubles . . . I’m just in that dark, rainy place.

If I knew how, I would show you a picture of how the hyacinths on my kitchen table smell, or how the rain on my roof sounds. I’m not a good enough photographer to convey those things in a picture, or a good enough writer to share them in words. But they’re good, and hopeful, so I’d share them with you if I could.

My arms won’t stay happy enough to reply to comments the way I like to. But I will say to Andrea and Peaches, from last Sunday, it is never too late to say, “He is risen, indeed.” OK, that reminds me of a story. I just did a quick search to see if I’ve told it here before, but looks like I haven’t. If I have, please forgive.

A few years ago, I saw a client, Gail, the week after Easter. She came in very upset, angry, tearful, and began to complain about her son, a college student.

“He RUINED Easter!” she accused, repeatedly. When I got her calmed down enough to explain the ruination of Easter, she told a story of how her boy, who was at a church-affiliated school, had gotten a ride home for Easter break with their parish priest, who happened to be visiting at the college. Gail was one who nearly worshiped the priest, and his opinion of both her and her family was of tremendous importance. When the priest picked up young Joshua, young Joshua was thoroughly hung over. And as such people sometimes do on long car trips, he puked all over the priest’s car.

After telling the story in great detail, Gail resumed her lament, “He RUINED Easter.” I should try to come up with some nice words for how I felt about this, since this is the Lord’s day, and since we’re talking about Easter, but the truth is, she was pissing me off. I gently challenged her thinking.

Knowing that Gail was a professing Christian (she professed all over the place, at the drop of a hat), I asked her, “What does Easter mean to you?”

“What?”

“What is the significance of Easter to you? What does it mean?”

She thought for a few minutes and said something like, “It means reconciliation. It means a new beginning, it’s a way for our sins to be forgiven, a way to approach God . . . “

“OK, so that’s Easter. Now maybe I’m missing something, but help me understand how Joshua puking in the priest’s car ruins Easter.”

Gail was quiet for a moment and then she smiled a tiny smile. “Easter can’t be ruined,” she said.

Yes! “That’s right. It’s a done deal. The tomb is still empty, every single morning when we get up. There’s nothing you, or I, or Joshua or the priest, can ever do, to make that not be so.”

So there. As always with these Sunday Posts, I’m preaching first to myself. I will be doing my darnedest to thoroughly immerse myself today in what I believe to be that truth: Easter (reconciliation, new beginning, forgiveness, a way to get back to God) is every day.

Happy Easter, friends.

Oh, and I need to let you know this, if you don’t already. My friend Little Sister is beginning treatment this week for cervical cancer. If you don’t know her, go read a little bit. She doesn’t post much, because she is terribly busy changing the world most of the time. She’s feisty, opinionated, smart, funny, sexy and just generally kicks ass. So she needs to get well and get back to what she does best, because there is a lot of ass-kicking to do in this world. Please join me in praying for her quick and complete return to health.

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The Annual Telling of the Lies

Posted in Can't Make This Stuff Up, Faith, Family on December 18, 2006| 26 Comments »

Every year, as part of the sacred celebration of that holiest of holidays, the birth of our Lord and Savior, I lie like a rug. I just sent an email, claiming to be someone I’m not. It was to my daughter, from fatmaninredsuit@ourinternetprovider.com. A couple of years ago, as Christmas approached, she was not making a name for herself on the “nice” list, if you know what I’m saying. Her room was atrocious, impenetrable, even. Finally, that year, the fat man threatened her with not leaving any gifts at all, if his elves did not report back to him that at least her floor was visible by Christmas Eve. (Yes, I have saved that letter so that she can take it to her therapist some day.)

The first Christmas lie (Santa doesn’t count) was one that LG actually originated herself, and there was no way I was contradicting it. When she was a wee little high-chair sitter, her wee high-chair sat next to our breakfast room window. Out that window, she had a perfect view of the home of our neighbor, Missy Colleen, who lived around the block from us, and a corner of whose backyard joined a corner of our backyard. At the front of Missy Colleen’s house stood a very tall utility pole. On that pole was (and I guess still is, though we moved a few years ago) a large, bright, street light. When toddler LG looked out that kitchen window, one dark December evening (no doubt after I’d been indoctrinating her with the Christmas story, as I did since she was about 10 months old), she pointed a plump, dimpled finger toward that light and said excitedly, “THE STAW-UH!”

I looked. I saw no staw-uh. Of course, I didn’t yet know what a staw-uh was. LG was undaunted by my ignorance.

“THE STAW-UH! THE STAW-UH!”

“The . . . staw? uh?” I tried to understand, since clearly it was something quite special.

“THE STAW-UH OF BUFF-LA-HAM!”

Well, I’ll be darned. She was right. There, big as life and twice as bright, was the Star of Bethlehem, curiously affixed to a pole in front of Missy Colleen’s home. The Staw-uh of Buff-la-ham, indeed. The beauty of that perception is . . . Missy Colleen. If the Star of Bethlehem were going to take up residence in suburban Baltimore, there is no place more worthy of its residence than Missy Colleen’s house. She LOVES her some Jesus, and will tell you so at the drop of a hat. She is in her late 70s now, and she will tell you about her younger years when she lived a rather “worldly” life. She will also tell you how once she met Jesus, in her 50s, her life began again. Missy Colleen (as she refers to herself) is in a wheelchair, from childhood polio. (Her wheels never stopped her from “getting around,” back in the day.) She is beautiful, in face, in body, in spirit. A few years ago, she married a tall handsome man who attends to her in the way in which she should be attended, and who sings show tunes with her, for the entertainment of visitors, say, a “young” friend with WTF disease who drops in to ask Missy Colleen for prayer. I adore Colleen. She is an example to me of a mature Christian. She is more conservative than I, in many ways, but mostly she is trying every day to do her best to follow Christ, and to acknowledge that whatever wrong thing someone else is doing, she probably did as bad or worse, or would have if she’d thought of it, and God still loves us all.

So, I ask you, why would the Star not sit right out in front of Missy Colleen’s? Well, it would, of course. LG asked me, either last year or the year before, if you can still see the Star of Bethlehem from our old kitchen window. I said I believe you can. You know, as I write this, maybe that’s not a lie after all.

What lies do you tell, or were you told, in celebration of Christmas?

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Sunday Post

Posted in Faith, Meta-blogging, Sunday Post, Thankful on November 26, 2006| 40 Comments »

thanksgiving bouquet closeup

“Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving.” — W. T. Purkiser

Psalm 118:1

I love this quote. I think I could use a daily reminder, not so much to count my blessings — that, I do — but to use them well. Sometimes I do OK. I was blessed to feel well enough to go to my niece’s wedding, at which she blessed me with the bouquet pictured here (and on Thanksgiving), one of her centerpieces. I enjoyed it so much, and was so thankful for the circumstances surrounding it, that I thought it the perfect symbol to use in my Thanksgiving “thank you” to all of you.

Yesterday I was blessed to feel well enough, for long enough, to enjoy a delightful afternoon with the beautiful mrtl and her has-to-be-beautiful-’cause-she-looks-just-like-mama daughter, Bug, who are visiting family here from Alaska. A movie, a couple of spins on a carousel, coffee, ice cream, a little conversation, a little kid-watching, a trip to Build-a-Bear, a lot of hugs (thanks to all who sent proxy hugs via mrtl, she did deliver). And Bug gifted me with, shall we say, a rodent’s derriere, attached to a smartly dressed rest-of-a-rodent. Truly a blessed day, for which I am thankful. Using the memories of that blessing to inspire much thankfulness today.

All this blessing-talk and mrtl-talk calls to mind a little thing that mrtl and I have had going. mrtl has opined, a time or two, about religious types telling people “have a blessed day.” Not one of her favorite things to hear. So I say it to her when the spirit moves me, just to be ornery. It’s not something I say to anyone but mrtl. Some time ago, conversation about that expression prompted me to tell mrtl about a woman I know on whose answering machine is the greeting, “The Jesus in me loves the Jesus in you.” I think I know what she means by that. But what if the caller has no Jesus in them? Indeed, doesn’t want any Jesus in them? And do those of us who claim Jesus-in-residence only love others who claim the same? I thought a more fitting, indeed, more Christ-like greeting would be, “The Jesus in me loves the hell outta you.” mrtl liked that one better, too. So that’s what’s on my answering machine (OK, now I’m just messing with you).

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A Christmas Eve Story

Posted in Faith, Sharing on December 24, 2005| 19 Comments »

There is a lady in my church who was probably one of the most brilliant and interesting people I’ve ever met. I say “was,” because, although she probably still is, you wouldn’t know it if you met her today. She was taken hostage quite a few years ago by Parkinson’s disease. She is now in a wheelchair, and although she often still attends church, it is frustrating to her. People want to visit with her, but she can’t think of the simplest words with which to join in conversation. They say that her brain would be fine, except for the effects of the medication she must take, to control some of the physical symptoms. Her intelligence, her sharpness, her physical energy and activity, these seemed to be her essence. People who’ve met her recently wouldn’t know that. By the way, quite a few of the stories I’ve written here came out of an autobiography group that she started, after having written her own.

Yesterday, the church newsletter came, and I was SO delighted to see that she had written something for it. And even more delighted when I read it. I truly can’t discern whether it is so moving to me because Miss Mary wrote it, or because of the story. And if you don’t know Miss Mary, or don’t believe the story, I don’t know if it will do a thing for you. I’m sharing it anyway.

God Looked Down

God looked down on His people, and He did not like what He saw. “I made them to love me and be my friends, but they don’t even know me. They are lost and confused. I sent Moses and the Law, but they cannot keep the Law. I sent them the prophets, but they did not listen to them. I’m going down there myself.”

The angel who stands by God’s right hand was aghast. “You can’t do that!” God silenced him with a look, for the angel knew perfectly well that God could do anything. “But it isn’t fitting for the Lord of all creation to descend on people!”

“When you love someone and they are in trouble, you go to them. That is fitting for me,” said God.

When the angel saw that it was indeed the intention of God’s heart to go, he bowed his head, then raised it and said, “Well, then, we must make arrangements. Will you descend on a stairway of stars? And we must have a golden chariot to carry you in glory through the streets of the city. And a legion of angels to keep back the people. And Gabriel with his trumpet and a band of choristers to announce your coming.”

God laughed. “No, no stairway of stars and no golden chariot. And certainly no angels to keep back the people. I will go to them as one of them. I will live with my people.”

And so the great news spread through the halls of heaven. The cherubim ran and shouted, and the seraphim sang, but the tall angel did not shout and he did not sing.

“Don’t go,” he said. “They will kill you.”

“I know,” said God. And He went.

*****

To my friends in blogworld, this Christmas, may you have the gift of knowing that you are loved. You are SOOOOOO loved. Like Miss Mary says.

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The Lord Did WHAT?

Posted in Can't Make This Stuff Up, Faith, Family on September 25, 2005| 24 Comments »

Our pastor is away on vacation, and when she’s not around, some things just don’t get done. For example, a thorough proofreading of the bulletin for the Sunday worship service. Jif and I got the “church giggles” when we noticed the following:

This is from today’s actual bulletin; note Hymn #362 (I have added the asterisks):

THIS is from our hymnal, the actual song that we were to sing:

Well, now, that’s different, wouldn’t you say?

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Whale Church

Posted in About Me, Can't Make This Stuff Up, Faith, Partial Nudity on June 29, 2005| 46 Comments »

This week I’m feeling “Forrest Gumpish,” like saying “that’s all I have to say about that,” and pulling the plug on the blog. The feeling will pass, I imagine, and I’ll think of something new to say. Until then, I’ll say something old. The following was written for an autobiography group that I participated in at my church some years back. I chose this “chapter” to post now, thanks to the inspiration of new blogfriend, Vicki, who wrote a lovely post with beautiful pix, “The First Church of Water Lilies” a few days ago.

Several years ago, Jif and I went to Boston. He had a conference for work, and I was just a tagalong. I loved it there. We rode the subway (my first), and I was very impressed with how safe it appeared. Elderly people and people with young children rode it late at night with no apparent fear. We went to the Museum of Fine Arts, and all around the city, and generally had a great time.

I had two contrasting experiences of my spirituality on that trip. The first was in the presence of whales. We went on a whale-watching boat, about 40 miles off the coast of Boston Harbor. As we prepared to leave, the man on the loudspeaker informed us that we were embarking on “a three-hour tour.” All those present who had grown up with “Gilligan’s Island,” myself included, immediately repeated after him, singing together, “a three-hour tour.” I hoped this wasn’t an omen about the fate of our excursion!

The guides on the boat were very knowledgeable about whales, and told us what we might see. They also warned us that sometimes they didn’t see any whales at all on these trips. As we made our way out to whale territory, I tried not to get my hopes up.

We saw whales. We saw whales like no one else on this tour company’s boats had ever seen whales, according to the excited guides. We saw at least six whales, humpbacks and minkes. We saw them far away and close up. We saw their eyes. We saw them breach and dive and spout. I’ve never been so thrilled by the majesty of a sight. For a grand finale, one whale came within six feet of the boat, rocking and splashing us, and scaring us for a brief moment. But that moment of fear was fleeting, and suddenly everyone on the boat became about 3 years old, jumping and squealing with delight. We laughed and clapped for the whale. Some of us cried. Adult self-consciousness quickly returned and most of us regained proper composure. I remained ecstatic. I realized my applause was for God. I’m sure there were others who felt that way. Like we were in church — the House of God — on the ocean. Whale Church.

Later in the week, on Sunday, I guess, I went to “real” church. It was a historical landmark, in the town square, and I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember its name. It was large and beautiful, with stained glass and lots of wood. In the part where I sat, there were kneelers covered in needlepointed fabric. As I looked around, I realized that the needlepoint work was the names of different families, some symbol representing that family, and the date it was placed there. Many had been there well over 100 years. The history of the building, and the beauty of its decoration, brought a special dimension to the worship, as did the kneeling and praying where another family knelt to pray almost 200 years ago.

As I left that church (after a guided tour of it, which was offered after the service), I felt like I had been to church, but not the same as when I’d been to whale church. As I thought about this, I realized that simplicity and straightforwardness are important to me, and feel more like God to me. On the ocean it was water, whales, God and us. With a marvelous building come many complications. It was beautiful, but having been involved in “beautifying” churches before, I wondered how many arguments there were about window treatments, lighting, etc., who “won” and “lost” those arguments, who felt hurt. And in that church, public tours were given. I imagine there were many discussions about time, admission price, what would be off limits, and other considerations I can’t even think of. Wonderful structures are well, wonderful, but I sometimes think the more people are impressed by them, the more God can get lost in them.

I know some people don’t feel this way at all. I suppose it’s a personality trait. I’ve been to “church” in the forest in Yellowstone and in the Grand Tetons, and felt very connected to God there. Those points of connection, like whale church, are few and far between with the lifestyle that we have (lifestyle meaning time and money available to run away from suburbia), but in a way they challenge me to attend traditional church and try to maintain at least an echo of that awesome connection, until I can go to another place — usually outdoors — and get recharged.

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