Cool Bright Silence

This morning is sunny and cool. You'd describe it as crisp and you'd be right. I am off work on this Friday with the Mr. and Daboyz both gone for the day. In my flannel pajamas and white tube socks I've finished my second cup of coffee and turned off the television. I have started the laundry and so the house is scented with laundry soap and coffee. The sun is bright and cold through the windows. It is silent.
As I walk through the east facing living room I feel the Holy Spirit here. He lives here. This cool bright silence has been in this house for better than thirty years. This is a tabernacle, a place of worship set down in the middle of life. Not a church built to house service. Instead it is a place that was ordinary and is now sacred. This house has not required television in the background because a King James Bible has been the axis on which it turned.
How remarkable this cool bright silence is. So familiar to me and so right. I am only slightly saddened at realizing that this is as it should be and yet has caught my attention for its specialness.
I don't know if you believe in God's presence being greater here than there. I do. I have been in homes that felt deeply sad. And I have been here where the cool bright silence is as though standing in a sunbeam from the throne. I think it is so because it has not been tolerated but hungered after. A daily longing to feel Jehovah that has become a part of the plaster and lumber of this house. I think this place itself longs for Christ because its inhabitants have been made of nothing more than desire for God.
I know their imperfections well. I know how great their failures and how ugly their battles. Yet God dwelled here drawn by hunger.
And I, stepping into the cool bright silence am suddenly aware, I am hungry too.

Isaiah 6:1-3 In the year that king Uzziah died I saw also the LORD sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphims: each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly. And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.

Sure Fire Pick-Me-Uppers

1. A really good cup of coffee.
2. A new book.
3. A clean house.
4. An old movie.
5. Sunshine in any temperature weather.
6. The weekend off (as opposed to this ridiculous swing shift weekend I'm havin'!)
7. Hearing the Mr. sing.
8. Third Day.
9. People who make me laugh.
10.Jeans that are a little loose.

"Think About What You Did!" (forever)

Leviticus 5:4-6 " 'Or if a person thoughtlessly takes an oath to do anything, whether good or evil—in any matter one might carelessly swear about—even though he is unaware of it, in any case when he learns of it he will be guilty. " 'When anyone is guilty in any of these ways, he must confess in what way he has sinned and, as a penalty for the sin he has committed, he must bring to the LORD a female lamb or goat from the flock as a sin offering; and the priest shall make atonement for him for his sin.
I called a business the other day and when I got the voice mail of the individual I needed to speak with, his out-going message said this at the end, "If in any way you are not satisfied with my service, please call my supervisor at ___________."
Wow.
I cannot imagine putting that message on my office phone. I don't particularly want you calling my supervisor if you are not satisfied with my service. Mainly because I don't always give the best service. What a commitment to tell someone to go ahead and report me if you think I didn't do a good job. Sheesh. I am embarrassed to admit that this kind of commitment would change some of my behavior. I didn't even realize this was true until I heard that message.
Putting that kind of statement out there means that I am going to do my best but if I don't, I'll own up to it. My goal is for the other person to be taken care of and not to protect my own convenience. I'll take the hit if I fail. I won't try to hide it.
It made me think of Adam and Eve and their fig leaves. I wonder how much of the time God sees me wearing a fig leaf. If so, I hope it's a largish one.
It also made me realize that it's not about perfection and it's not about shame. It's about truly getting up in the morning wanting and trying to do right. And then when you fall short skipping over the shame part and just moving on to making it right if you didn't do it right. Being willing to own my actions.
So why wouldn't I do this? I guess because people have taught me that if I take that approach, I might not get applause for it. I might get yelled at. Rejected. Mocked, talked about. People have taught me that to err is human and to admit it is stupid.
I have learned that when I mess up, it all ends with either getting away with it or getting punished. Being an excellent pupil, I have taken great pains to pass the message on.
That's not God, that's people. God adds another step, just make it right. Do what you can to acknowledge it and move on. Yes, you won't be able to fix everything so you'll need Christ to do that for you.
Admit it. Apologize. Do what you can to make it right. Let Christ do the rest. Accept his sacrifice in place of the price you can't pay anyway and move on. MOVE ON.
It isn't a Vengeful God that makes us afraid. It's a vengeful humanity. We teach each other that it's safer not to be accountable. Stay under the radar. Oh, and in the process be crushed on the inside.
I wish I was brave enough to tell you to report me if I did something wrong. But I'm still seeing too much of man in my vision of God. I'm still afraid that it will end with punishment and loss.
No, I can't make it right. I can only do my best. But if I believe in a big enough God; that's not a problem.
The tiny little god we present that doesn't let you move on is the one who scares us.
The tiny little god that we have appointed ourselves to be.
No wonder we are so afraid.

Come To Church With Me

This week I read Amrita's post and thought, "enough!" Then I read Louise's and thought, "enough!" Then I thought in general, enough. Enough of people being attacked and battling. Not that it will ever end, but maybe the enough is enough of me knowing and praying quickly as I stop by a blog. We are the church you know. Every one of us that gathers and claims Christ are at church. On a blog or in a living room. At work or at Starbucks (or Panera which is where Margie and I have church.) It's church when we're together.
There are times when I wish I could create a hybrid church. So many people I love who, for one reason or another, don't attend Metrosouth with me. I had a lot of years of my best friends and closest family all attending church together and going out for Sunday dinner afterward. What a sweet time that was. How blessed to have my little boys run across the aisle to sit with Aunt Pat. To have my mom take a crying baby to the nursery for me so I could worship. To have Kelly hold a very bad Mac for hours so he could be in the Christmas play. To see Louise and Arlene several times a week and to have them be a part of my life from the earliest moments.
Now life is different. Some of us still live in the same houses but God has called us to different houses of worship. Some of you I've never met and will never sit next to on a Sunday morning. Some of you I will again minister with when God decides it's time.
And some of you are Metroites.
But all of you, those in the list on the right and those who I know read quietly, you're my family. There is a higher order of friends when God has created us for one another. You are those people. So humor me because today, I want to go to church with you. I want us to pray for those people among us who we know are in a battle and those who I know about privately and those who haven't shared but hurt within.
Do you need healing of the heart, mind or body? Do you need forgiveness that you keep asking for but can't feel? Do you need financial salvation? Do you need God to save people you love before it's too late? Do you just need?
One of the most sacred times of all those church years was communion. A time to stop, and together, to remind ourselves who we belong to. To God. To one another. That common bond of Christ and his blood. Not a time for perfect people to sip wine and nibble a cracker. A time for imperfect struggling hurting loving people to accept the sacrifice that answers all the questions.
I don't care if you haven't stepped foot inside of a church in thirty years. I don't care if you just took communion with five hundred people last week. Come, take communion with us. To remember, to worship, to ask and to receive.
Get a bottle of water and a bread crust. It doesn't have to be fancy. But I'm inviting you, today. Now.
Will you come to church with me and share communion?

1 Corinthians 11:23 For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread:
24 And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.
25 After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.
26 For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord's death till he come.

Communion
1. For you if you have received Christ as your savior, even if it was just this moment. Join us.
2. You will need a drink to represent the wine/blood of Christ. Any drink will do.
3. You will need bread or a cracker to represent the bread/body of Christ.
4. Read the scripture above. Out loud is great but it can be silent.
5. When you get to verse 24, take the "bread" and think about Christ giving his body for your sins so that you can be free to serve him. And think about the fact that you are a part of our body, the church. Thank him for his sacrifice and eat the bread.
6. Read verse 25. Think about the blood of Christ. But this time, it is not about death it is about life. Our life is in our own blood physically. Spiritually our life is in the blood of Christ. He supplies every need through himself so that every part of us can grow and be whole. Thank him for always covering your mistakes and your future with his blood, with life. Even when it feels like you are living in death, ask him to make you see that he gives life continuously to us. Thank him, then drink your "wine."

Lord, thank you for the gift of your son. Thank you for communion to help us to understand that you took death from us by dying for us. And you gave life to us in its place to wash over us even in our own destruction. Thank you for every person who shares their time with me through this blog. Bless them, heal them, guide them and meet their needs. Draw us together to minister to one another in whatever ways we can. This church loves you God. Thank you. In Jesus name. Amen.

I Wish We'd All Been Ready

I have been thinking about this for a while now but never wrote about it because it seemed rather too theological for me to try to speak to. But I've come to the realization that if I never talk about things I do not completely comprehend, I will never speak. And we all know that ain't happening. So here it goes.
The Rapture, Second Coming, Tribulation, Mark of the Beast. The Anti-Christ.
When I was a kid, this whole End Times thing was terrifying. At times, it was a constant thought. Am I saved? Will I be left behind? Who is the Anti-Christ? Is he a baby now? A man? My age? Hey! Was that a trumpet?
If you were raised in church, I've got to think some of you have had the same experience. At least in the 1970s Pentecostal church we were kept holy via terror of someone writing 666 on our foreheads in Sharpie. Seriously, I laid awake at night fearing the Rapture and praying to stay saved at least through the night. Then I started hearing about Pre-Trib, Post-Trib, Mid-Trib, Armageddon...this is why I now work in mental health. I lost my mind and my eye sight staring to the East. Because it was such a huge fear in my childhood, in adulthood I made myself face the whole Revelations thing head-on and get a grip on it. I didn't do a deep scriptural research project or travel to the Holy Land or call the Pope or anything. I thought it through and made a decision to get over it. I can't do anything but live for Christ now and face the rest of time as it unfolds. If the Rapture happens after the Tribulation and it happens during my life time, there it is. How in the world am I going to change that? I'd best just get to living knowing that God will be sufficient however my days are spent.
One thing I have figured out is the Anti-Christ. Many smarter people than I probably have a better handle on this, but I'm putting my thoughts out there for the rest of you Beast watchers. I don't think the Anti-Christ is some little boy adopted in Italy with weird writing under his hair. I don't think there is some evil infant out there that we need to hunt down and eliminate. I think that throughout all of time, there has been someone evil enough to be used for this purpose. There has always been some fool who wants to lift himself above God and will give in to his own arrogance in exchange for his soul. Who will believe in himself above God. The Anti-Christ, I think, has always walked the earth. And always will. Until...
Until we decide it is time to give him the power for which he hungers. Until we stop seeking after God and righteousness and holiness. We have stopped the Hitlers and all who came before him. But someday; we, humanity, will decide that we can tolerate one more thing. And one more. And one more. And that we can separate our desire for wealth from our desire for God. And we can look the other way and let someone else make the decisions. We will be drawn to pretty words and warm smiles and promises of ease.
And we will have the spirit of the Anti-Christ. Or at least, we will welcome him. We will sit quietly and let him ascend as long as our little lives are not too bothered. We will assume someone else will be the warrior to stop him. We will believe another generation, (before or after ours), is called to battle.
When we get tired or selfish or lazy or stupid enough; it will be time.
I know my great grandparents and my grandparents stopped him. I know that it is time for my parents and I to stop him.
And I must teach my children and grand children to stop him.
But someday, we will not stop him. We will welcome him. And with him, the end of time.
This year is much scarier than the 1970s.

1 John 4:2-4 Hereby know ye the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God: And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God: and this is that spirit of antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is it in the world. Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them: because greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.

I'm Not Free

Somehow the giant concept of salvation as freedom always gets crammed into a tiny little box in my hands. Once I get beyond free from going to hell, I'm stumped. Maybe I don't trust myself with all of this freedom. I think that it's supposed to ultimately manifest itself in joy, freedom in Christ. Freedom from feeling shamed, unworthy, unloved. Freedom from every little nasty voice from within and without that can take a perfectly nice day and make my stomach hurt.
I also think that something about not being free appeals to me. Freedom and rules don't necessarily co-habitate and I like rules. Obedience of the rules makes me proud of myself. Obedience of the rules also has some clear benefit in the avoidance of consequences. My problem is that I like rules too much and I use them to justify what I want to do. Schedules and bed times and chores and "taking care of myself" are all rules that make me not free. Not free to have a cup of coffee with you or visit someone in the hospital or extend myself somewhere beyond the rules that build my life. I'm just not...free.
Not free, not available. Freedom in this tiny box of what should be according to me. Freedom to say "No, I'm too tired." because I worked over time and now even if I let someone down, I am free to not come for a visit. Freedom to say, "I can't afford to give." because I tithed my 10% and I want to spend my money somewhere else or I don't want to take a chance on not having money in case I want to spend it somewhere else. I'm free to suspect that someone needs counsel and not do it because "They will probably be offended and Christ doesn't want me to be offensive."
I'm free to walk away. That freedom I claim. I am free not to be free.
I am free not to spend time in true prayer on my knees in a quiet room because I am always communicating with God (sure I am) and he knows what's going on and someone out there is called to be a prayer warrior. I am free not to sit with a Bible in my hands because I more or less know what's in there at this point.
I'm free to have a feeling that I really need to call someone and then not do it because I am at work (the rules!) or it's late (the rules!) or I told the Mr. to because it's a man I'm worried about and he didn't (the rules!) or it's none of my business (the rules!) The rules really work well for me.
I am free to not write that letter or send that card because someone will never change. I am free not to offer to help because they never learn. I am free to not confront because they will get angry. I am free to throw my hands up and walk away because someone else will probably do a better job anyway.
I am free not to teach a Bible study because I am burned out and it always turns ugly and I never accomplish what I hoped to and I probably do more harm than good because I am not spiritual enough.
I am free to be quietly redeemed while someone else is quietly drifting farther away from God every day.
My tiny little box of freedom. Certainly not enough to share.

1 Corinthians 8:9 Be careful, however, that the exercise of your freedom does not become a stumbling block to the weak.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Psalm 107:24-25 These see the works of the LORD, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.

This Rainy Weekend

1. Housework.
2. Laundry.
3. Pot of chili.
4. Move furniture.
5. Grocery shopping.
6. Church.
7. Organize jewelry.
8. Buy a new book, finished with Hughes.
9. Manicure @ home.
10. Watch old movies.

9/11

Smith Happens (A Rerun)

The following is from an e mail from a few years back. it likely contains spelling and grammatical errors due to the traumitized nature of the author; me. Warning: disturbing and offensive imagery to follow. And now, by popular demand...SMITH HAPPENS

Knowing that you wait anxiously for all news Smith, let me share the last few days with you.....
Our bathroom sink has not been draining properly for some time. A fact which concerned me, but not so much the Mister. Finally Saturday night, I reminded him once again what a discouragement this was to me, so he went out at 9 PM to purchase heavy duty- don't use this if you aren't a professional, in fact even professionals shouldn't use this, back away from the bottle slowly drain cleaner. So here's his big plan, this stuff is some kind of acid in granular form which activates when it contacts water. So he decides the best move is to pour it down the drain, then turn the shop vac on blow to force it all the way down. So what do you think happened? Yup. He starts screaming "Sara turn it off, turn it off!" The acid granules are indeed blowing back into his face, eyes, mouth, nose and all over his chubby little body in general. So I run in and turn it off and he goes into fast motion Silkwood style stripping and into the shower for the Meryl Streep treatment whilst I throw his clothing down the chute, (burning my fingerprints off) and cover the drain with a towel to prevent further contamination. He takes about 4 more showers and a shot of Benadryl to deactivate the reaction to the crap he's inhaled and happily, the sink is draining. Injured and exhausted, it's off to bed for us.
Then Jay decides to take a shower, which makes us happy. Afterward, even more hygienic measures involving q-tips. More pride. Several dozen q-tips fall into the toilet. Ha ha. Jay is a smart boy, he flushes them.
2 a.m., the Mister gets up for the nightly tinkle and, well that's funny, the toilet is sure flushing slow and kind of backing up. Hmm. I get up at 4 for the early a.m. whiz, and golly Moses that toilet is a 'backin' up like nobody's business. 7 a.m. the back up and slow flush continue and the Mister is applying plunger in boxer shorts with Benadryl/acid burn hangover. 8 a.m., more of the same. 9 a.m., drain cleaner down the toilet. 10 a.m., no progress and we ain't goin' to church. Boyz wake up and Jay's foolishness is exposed. He claims no responsibility as "everything should be flushable."
So last night the toilet is still flushing slow, filling to the rim, draining over 20 minutes. The Mister announces there's nothing for it but a plumber. Sigh.
This morning much to my horror the entire Smith household finds themselves in need of bowel movement
Jumping Jehosophat. It's sure to be bad news.
I return from dropping the boys off at school to about 4 inches of dark brown chunky water in the toilet and Sweet Mother of God I have to go #2. Devil jerk poo master
So, I throw caution to the wind and pray for a loose stool. No such luck my friend. Two hours and several flush attempts later, poo galore to the rim. Apparently, gasp, I have to attempt to fix the toilet which now harbors several gallons of Smith fecal infested doo doo juice. So, I grab the plumber, nothing but poo splash from that. I get the snake, no luck.
Bend over, grab your knees and kiss your butt good-bye, I'm gonna have to shop vac that mother out. So I go down into the basement, haul up the shop vac, and suck me up some doo juice. Let me just insert here that it is a good thing that I am a trained poop cleaner as it was nasty on many levels and stink like you can't believe. The sound effects? Low pitched suck with occasional 'THUD', let your imagination fill in the gaps on that one. So I gave that bad boy a good long poo sucking and then all of a sudden the liquid chunk sound turns to a delicate rattle. Can it be? Have I actually sucked through the water, sewage, toilet paper and poop and hit the mother load? Yes, yes! Sweet fancy Moses I believe I've extracted the offending q-tips. So I refill the tank, breathing through my nose, and flush and glory hallelujah! The toilet is a 'flushing and a 'filling. I fixed it! So now I can eliminate to my hearts content but I got me a stinking industrial sized shop vac full of poo. What to do? Put it in the back yard of course So,now I'm dragging and it's swishing and stinking all the way through the house and then I realize, great gatsby! I have to get this mother down the basement landing stairs to get of the back door. Merciful Jesus don't let the lid come off. Well, I did it and it's now standing proudly in the backyard full of stink waiting for the Mister's return. Won't he be proud? How, you may ask, will we dispose of this toxic drum full of poo? Not my problem, I say we take the whole thing to the dump and buy a new one. My work here is done.
Love & tales from a poo
Sara

For further information on what happened to the shop vac full of feces; please contact the Mr.

Just Thankful

This evening is just one of those times I have to say, "thank you Lord." In the old days, it might be a testimony shared on Sunday evening; standing up to tell the congregation what God has done. I think those old days were wiser days. Too often now I find myself thanking God belatedly for his constant care.
Driving to work this morning at 8:00 a.m. on the Southfield freeway, the car in front of me slammed on his brakes. I hit him, the guy behind me hit me, a fourth guy hit him. Three impacts that felt pretty hard from my seat. My head bounced back on the head rest a few times and I was thrown against my seat belt. Car number one kept right on driving. Myself and car number three stopped. Car number four didn't stop. The gentleman who hit me was named Les. I want to take a moment to thank the Lord for this sweet guy who could've been frustrated or even angry. We got out to survey our vehicles parked on the Southfield embankment near Six Mile. I was astonished to look at my truck and find no damage. Looking closely there's a slight dent on my tail gate. You'd never see it if you didn't know to check. I went around front where I'd hit car number one. Nothing. Les, however, was looking at his SUV with broken head lights, smashed grill, accordion hood and some kind of clear liquid pouring out from under the front end.
I asked him if he was okay. His response, "I'm fine baby. Don't worry. Wasn't your fault, wasn't my fault." We exchanged information and went on our way. He shook my hand and smilingly said, "It's sure a pretty day. Just as good as any to have to call off and get my car fixed."
I got back into my truck and waiting for the freeway traffic to open up I thanked God for not only keeping my body safe, but protecting my truck and even putting this sweet man in the car behind me.
So tonight I've got a sore back, stiff neck and a head ache. But a heart thankful for a four car accident that reminded me that I am watched over even when I haven't asked to be.

Proverbs 2:7-8 He holds victory in store for the upright, he is a shield to those whose walk is blameless, for he guards the course of the just and protects the way of his faithful ones.

p.s. Marty, what law enforcement agency do I make a police report with on the Southfield at 6 Mile? State? County? Detroit?

Good Enough For Me And Ellen Mc Gee

And here we have another of those all important posts. What kind of shoes should I wear to work? The seasons are changing here in Michigan and I have to pick up a few items for work. This time last year I was wearing scrubs, now I wear "business casual." I'm not entirely sure what that means either than every day I feel markedly over or under dressed and always uncomfortable.
The biggest issue is shoes. I love shoes, truly I do. But I also have very bad feet that hurt after approximately 10 minutes standing on them. Too much arch hurts my flat feet. Not enough arch and I have a back ache. I work on hard hospital floors all day and at times I'm involved in physical management. My workplace was built by the architects of Hogwarts, none of the floors match up and there are stairs everywhere.
Now consider business wear daily that require finding suitable black and brown shoes at the very least. Slight heel, flat heel, etc. It's ridiculous. It's a ton of money for constant discomfort causing me to go back to the store to spend more money to be uncomfortable again. And I am such a t-shirt and jeans girl anyway.
So this is what I lay before the jury for consideration. I am seriously considering wearing tennis shoes every day regardless of my clothing. It will save me physical pain. It will save me money. But it will also look like I am wearing gym shoes with dress clothes because basically, I will be.
Years ago business women in New York started wearing gym shoes with their suits. Cybill Shephard used to wear them with everything stating that she refused to cause herself back pain and damage for the sake of a pair of pretty shoes. Here's what I'm thinking, you have to work the look to make it work. I think Ellen (who likes many things I do not like. Or at least one thing) has a good jump on the funky smart casual gym shoes look.
So before I start building my wardrobe, give me some ideas. Then I will think about them and shoot them down one by one and do my own thing.

Thanks!

September 7, 2008

Leviticus 26:4 I will send you rain in its season, and the ground will yield its crops and the trees of the field their fruit.

What Is The Difference Between A Possum and An Opossum?

1. Does anything smell better than the first cup of coffee in the morning?
2. Jay's coming home this evening!
3. Gotta catch up on blog reading.
4. Great sleeping weather.
5. There was a giant possum in my yard this week. I hate his guts.
6. Time to make reservations for Marshall.
7. Back on my diet this week and I MEAN IT.
8. I need a new camera.
9. Current book; Howard Hughes, His Life and Madness
10. I can't think of a number ten.

Kilpatrick

It has been on television all day long. By the time I got home and turned on the news to really get the details, I just sat and cried. Took myself by surprise. I have spent my share of time discussing this with sarcasm and a judgemental attitude.
But tonight I suddenly saw a man loved deeply by God. This man who has been gifted with so much that God must have had a purpose for. He is still viable to be used to glorify God. But today, I feel so sad for him. I will admit, for the first time I am sad for him. I do not defend him. He shames Detroit. I am not sure he got consequences severe enough for his actions.
But I do know that God's heart is breaking.

The Eternal Lump of Clay That Is Me

I know people who it seems have been settled into their lives for twenty years. And I'm still not quite there. Not quite? Who am I kidding, I don't even have an estimated time of arrival. I thought by now I'd be more "there"; where ever there is. I'd have my career running smoothly and be living in THE house and be ever so wise and serene. Oh, and beautiful. It doesn't seem like that is such a difficult thing because most of the people I know seem to have accomplished all of this while I'm still faking being a grown up. I don't know what the heck I'm doing.
I seem to always have been at loose ends. Planning without accomplishing. Thinking that by some age in the future I'd have my act together but those ages keep coming and going and my act seems to be less together than ever. I should be humming along in a job I have mastered at this point, piling up retirement funds. No. Not me. I'm starting on yet another new position and learning again how to do my work. I'm returning to school again and trying to paint a new picture in my mind of what the goal is. And the thing is, I am not discontent. I would be perfectly satisfied settling in at any point along the way. Do you hear me God? Not asking for any new challenges! Status quo would be a lovely way to live from here on in. But I keep getting pushed through doors. This is probably because someone just opening the door doesn't inspire me, I have to be shoved through. This usually results in a Lucille Ball entrance into the next phase of my life; stumbling and landing on my hands and knees looking around bewildered.
I keep waiting to grow up, by that I mean to get "there." To arrive. To be able to set myself on cruise control. That doesn't seem to be the plan for me. Until very recently I thought my constant life flux was because I keep messing up. Missing the exit and having to take the long way around. Changing course because I am always going in the wrong direction. Certainly this is often the case.
Now I am trying to just take it as a whole. Life may never settle in for me. Or it may do so when I'm about 85 and still going to school. This is definitely not the way I saw myself when I was eighteen and planning my future. I saw myself as a home maker, maybe someday a school teacher. Someone who would fade quietly into the background of life. Perhaps not giving much but hopefully not taking too much either. God just won't leave it there. He keeps pulling the rug out from under me. If you're waiting for the final paragraph where all the lessons are learned, it hasn't been written yet. I don't get it. I don't know why I can't just settle in on cruise control. All I have learned has only revealed how much I don't know.
The question on my mind has changed from what do I want to be to this...God, what can you make of me?

Romans 9:20-21 But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? "Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, 'Why did you make me like this?' "Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?

Fashion Sense

Me: I think your blouse is inside out.
She: Why do you say that?
Me: Because you see these things? They're shoulder pads. They go on the inside.
She: But then you can't see them.

To Everything There Is A Tennis Ball

Believe it or not, I'm a lot more laid back than I used to be. Those who have been around a while remember my anniversary trip when I couldn't stop thinking of the dirty laundry at home. I'm trying to out grow that kind of thinking.
I have fried many days off with the pressure of getting done all the stuff that hadn't gotten done throughout the week. I have found that I can get just as much done without a clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Also discovered that if I take time in my days off to watch an old Katherine Hepburn movie or Green Acres rerun or take an impromptu nap; I'm not so exhausted on my work days that I can't throw in some laundry. I figure the day before I die I'll have learned how to live with both accomplishment and rest at the same time.
Donny could teach me a thing or two about daily pleasures. He insists on fun. He does not particularly care if his fun is at the expense of your convenience. If he wants to go outside, he wants it RIGHT NOW and he's not going away until you stand up and open the door. And let me tell you about his tennis ball problem. He is obsessed. He carries two or three at a time and will drop the nasty dirty spitty things in your lap over and over until you give up and throw it for him to chase it. And when it's time to rest, he's very particular about just exactly what is the best spot for lazing. Kennel? Couch? In the hole in the back yard? In bed? He knows what he likes. I fear my dog is more mentally healthy than I am. I have never seen him with a furrowed brow. And between you and me, I have evidence that he is not constipated like some of us.
It is to Donny's advantage that he can pursue only fun every day. But I will admit that I have had the opportunity for the pursuit of pleasure and let it pass me by. Maybe my guilty secret is my pleasure was complaining about being a martyr?
There will always be another table to dust, another floor to mop. I am learning now to do enough (and that does not mean do nothing) and then to sit on the deck eating Rice Krispies and just resting.
So if you see me with a tennis ball in my mouth, don't worry. I'm just trying to find a little balance.

Genesis 2:3 And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

1. Computer crashed, was repaired and is back.
2. Sent home from work sick yesterday, still sick but getting better.
3. Found my green pajama pants with lemons on them. Makes me happy. Excellent sick wear.
4. I Love Lucy on all morning, excellent sick watching.
5. Left work yesterday and went straight to 24 hour urgent care clinic; closed for the Labor Day weekend. Isn't that exactly when a 24 hour urgent care clinic should be open?
6. Jay's on vacation, please pray for safe travel and a great time. He called last night and sounded very very happy (and tired!) Landed in Los Angeles at 11:30 and had seen the walk of fame, star's homes and eaten at Farmer's Market. Aunt Sue and Lisa are taking good care of him just like we knew they would.
7. My mom just now tells me that one cannot eat a garden planted around a utility pole, toxic. Well, this explains my giant leafy miniature tomato bearing garden. P.S. I'm giving away free tiny vegetables this year if you're interested. Just as long as you don't mind bearing cyclops babies someday.
8. Mrs. Grass soup makes everything better.
9. Have settled on paint colors for family room, kitchen and living room. More to come on that...
10. Planning our yearly Marshall trip and ready for Autumn. To everything there is a season.

Isaiah 32:17 The fruit of righteousness will be peace; the effect of righteousness will be quietness and confidence forever...

Love

She was wearing a mint green suit the first time I met her. She approached me to introduce herself with this smile that even my cynical self couldn't doubt. In that moment of introduction I went out on a limb and decided that I'd be friends with this woman if she'd be friends with me. My life was in a secret shambles. I knew that my marriage was in serious trouble but I hadn't spoken it aloud. When I tried to talk to Dean he brushed me off. But there was something wrong. Something terrifying was being born in our home and I was the only one who knew it.
So I figured when it all finally fell apart, I'd need a friend. Maybe the smiling green suit would be that person.
Her youngest was older than my oldest and she was giggling about having just gotten back into that suit but knowing full well she looked "stuffed" into it. She didn't care, she was just happy to have squeezed it on. She whispered to me that she was wearing a girdle. This sealed the deal, if we could talk girdles, we could be friends. She brought me into the circle of friends there at church where ladies talked about their kids and their husbands and their homes. She was proud of her family without being arrogant. She openly loved her husband and openly shared their imperfections at the same time. When I dropped hints that my marriage was hurting, she didn't miss a beat. She just kept smiling that warm smile but somehow, a gentle sorrow for my pain was added to her eyes. I never felt that she looked down on me. I believed she wanted my family to survive.
Her businessman husband talked and prayed me through the night when Dean was at work and somehow the secret something had become large and loud and out of control. The smiling green suit never really gave me any advice. She wasn't someone who needed to be your advisor. Just kept on that same steady track of friendship, accepting my conversations whether they were outpourings of sadness or just small talk.
I don't know when the healing came on the timeline of our friendship. We were never BFFs. I don't think I ever had a phone conversation with her unless it was to confirm what we were bringing to the church picnic. I didn't tell her my deep dark secrets, didn't catch her up on the latest every day when the Mr. left for work. But somewhere between a few months and a few years later, God healed us. The role of the smiling green suit and her husband remained one of there when they were needed and stepping aside when they weren't. Taking what we could give when we could give it.
She kept being a proud wife and mom, clearly loving her family. She was fulfilled in being the one who drove this child to soccer practice or that one to music lessons. She took pleasure in keeping her husband's business suits laundered and had his shirts pressed at the cleaner so they'd have an extra sharp crease. She knew their ins and outs and made their lives sweeter in the small ways individual to each of them.
And then she changed. She became short-tempered and sarcastic. She slammed doors. She stopped smiling. She stopped chatting about meat loaf recipes and soft ball games.
The business man husband didn't think he wanted to be married any longer. He didn't come to church and we kept asking where he was. Her answers were simple at first, "he's out of town" and then biting, "how should I know?" Where I used to count her as among one of my favorite people, I dreaded being around her. She was so angry and so sad that she became a force that seemed too powerful for me, I didn't know what to do with her.
Her pain not only erased her smile but turned the air around her heavy and bitter. The scent of it was familiar to me, my own rage and terror had been its equal.
But she was different in one way. At my bottom I wanted Dean destroyed, rode out of town on a rail. Take that bass away. Get him off the stage. Do you know what he is? Anger was all I was for a while there. Spite, revenge. Something to preoccupy me from myself.
She was angry, but it never overtook her love for him. She raged when it was discussed that his position at church should be revoked. He hadn't been there in months. She stood in his place to defend him and remind everyone that this was a good man in a bad time. He moved out of the house and she continued to take his shirts to the dry cleaner to be professionally pressed. She took their children to school and practice and cooked dinner every night and took a full time job because now they were supporting two houses. The week their divorce was final she told me she didn't want him to hurt. She never said anything about the specifics of their split. When his father died she cried for him. When people asked how he was she told whatever good there was, bragged on his accomplishments like she always had. "You know him, he's so smart!" "He's such a perfectionist, it's no wonder he's doing so well." "Pray for him, just pray for us."
I never heard of another man that she might have dated. I'm not saying I would have. We were never that close. She was a warm smile during my coldest days. I tried hard to be that for her, I didn't do it as well.
Years went by with her hugs when we'd run into each other and a whisper in my ear, "Pray for us." Still us. After years. After little kids grew up. After grand babies. Pray for US.
I know that they found one another again and when he was ready, she took him back with joy. I know that the years and the pain are not entirely erased. I know that the trust is slow to build and this new life will be different than the life of the before.
I haven't seen her in a long time now. Him longer. It was at least a year ago when she hugged me and whispered the usual, "Pray for us."
This woman, the woman in the mint green suit who smiled at me, she is love. She who was brave and honest enough to bear her grief without shame and somehow protect the dignity of the one who had destroyed her. She who kept a home for his return not knowing if it would ever happen. She who had moments of rage and ugliness. I now realize her angriest moments were those when she was left standing alone to demand that his friends stand by him as they wanted to turn away. She who was once one of a couple and then came alone to graduation parties. She who once had such an easy smile and then looked so tired I wondered how she stood up. She who loved, raged and came full circle to put her heart again on the line for him.
Today I don't know where they are. I think together. I haven't heard anything. We've drifted, that group of friends and us. This morning I awoke and thought of her. I bet that first smile was about 20 years ago.
After all this time, her impact on my life remains. Love dies for the beloved.

1 Corinthians 13:1-13 If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

August 24, 2008

Exodus 15: 13 In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling.


The painting is "Eternal Jerusalem" by Shoshana Meerkin.

Back Porch Thoughts

1. Went here a few months ago for a work breakfast. Thinking about having a leisurely breakfast with the Mr. here on Saturday.
2. Gonna go get some paint chips and figure out the Ricardo House theme.
3. Mr. is playing at Baxter's again Saturday night, you comin'?
4. I really need to clean the left over garage sale stuff out of my garage. Yes, it's still there. Blame my mother, I do.
5. Mr. gots to paint the side garage door.
6. Hey! My grapes are almost ripe! Thanks Tom!
7. For the third week in a row I'm planning on getting some black work shoes. We'll see if I actually go to a store this week.
8. Summer is winding down, it feels like fall rolling in. Can anybody else feel it?
9. As I was leaving one of the units at work I heard one staff say to another one, "I just love Ms. Sara, don't you?" I don't share this to brag but to say how humbled I am by moments that lift my weariness and expose my blessings.
10. I really do need to get a book to read this weekend. I have nothing around here.

Pic: My back porch with only a month of so of morning coffee in the sunshine left.

BABALOOO! BABLOOO EYE AAAAAAY!

OK, drop everything this is very important and I expect you all to cowboy up and help me.
I want my house to feel like Lucy's house after she and Ricky moved to Connecticut. This is what we know so far, it was rustic with a mid-century feel. Farm housey but not country-precious.
This is all I know. Your assignment is to figure out exactly what it is I'm trying to do here and explain it to me.
In other words, you've got some 'splainin' to do.
Meanwhile my mother's only advice is to marry a Cuban. Which I haven't ruled out.

Dogsomnia

Yawn.
I should be almost ready for work this morning but I'm moving slowly. At 1:24 a.m. Donny decided he wanted outside. I invited him into bed. No. I patted his bed to demonstrate how comfy it is. No. I used my stern voice, "Donny! Go lay down!" No. Whine, cry, dog sounds that are almost words but not quite. Hound face peeking up over the side of the bed. Clicking toe nails of a pacing hound on a hardwood floor. At 1:30 I gave up and let him outside. I thought maybe someone neglected to give him his bed time potty break.
So I let him out and stand at the door expecting a quick taking care of business and back to bed with us. Well, apparently at 1:30 in the morning there are fabulous smells which are not there by the light of day. At the end of ten minutes I promise you I never saw him relieve himself despite trotting happily around our double lot with his nose to the ground. He did come to the door with a tennis ball in his mouth.
So he comes inside and hops happily into bed next to the Mr. falling asleep immediately with tennis ball in jaws. I can only assume he awoke and realized he'd left it outside. I don't know.
I do know that at 4:30 this morning I was still awake thinking about paint colors for my kitchen, meetings at work and that I should plant some mums this fall.
At least Donny is well-rested and the midnight tennis ball bandits were foiled again.
Yawn.

Therefore The Redeemed

Job 19:25 I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth.
As I've lived here in my grandparent's house, it's been a slow process of envisioning what I want to change to make it my own. When we first moved in, everyone was asking what I was going to do in terms of decorating. After a month of so of lengthy conversations and magazine searching and deciding what we wanted we gave up. We quit trying to decide realizing that we needed to live here to know what we wanted, a sort of settling in. Five months later I am starting to have more of an understanding of this house and me in it, memories making it that much more complicated. I'm almost ready to put paint to walls. And almost ready to let go what was for what will be.
Jay is moving into my other grandma's house. He's ready for home ownership and dreams of his own. So he sits and talks to his grandparents, his aunt and us about what he wants his own new old house to be. We look through magazines and try to help him identify the commonalities between this picture and that to steer him toward what he seems to like best. We envision walls torn down, flooring and function that will change what this little house has always been. Much like his dad and I on the other side of town. Dogs living where they never lived before. A young man starting life in the house his grandfather lived in. You might think of opportunity and blessing and time moving on.
I think of redemption.
It is the desire of man's heart to claim life and make it his own. To mold our lives into something that in turn molds us. We desire a home that reflects past, present and future if our pasts have been happy and we embrace the future with hope. We greet the present as the starting gate. I watch my son's eyes light up as he talks about copper pipes, mortgage rates and how long it takes drywall mud to dry. He is captured by redeeming what he has been offered to make it even better.
Life is continual redemption. It is carved within us, being the only thing to turn us toward our own redemption. The ability to see what might be better. To admit that all is not well and to reject the things that are less than they could be.
Isn't it familiar to us, to know what we want to change and yet struggle with the most obvious ideas? Eat less. Exercise. Save money. Mop the floor. Study. None of these are mysteries we cannot solve and yet we struggle. We want the better, we are dissatisfied with what is and still...
I can look at many years of knowing that all was not redeemed and knowing how to fix it. And doing nothing. It could weigh me down with suffocating regret should I let it. The inner voice that knew something better was within but not being able to make myself find that better something. Not being able to let go of the things that stood between me and redemption. That same battle lives inside of me. Lessons are learned slowly and often learned, lost and relearned as regrets pile higher.
I have understood so acutely that so much needed to be redeemed that I've thrown up my hands knowing I just couldn't do it. Days became weeks became months became years until I suddenly realized I had made some determination that just never happened. Shame almost convinced me that the redemption clock had run out.
Now I know that life is like this new old house, you have to live in it to understand. It isn't a matter of hopelessness or opportunities lost forever. Redemption is just the opposite. Redemption of life, like new old houses, just requires someone to dream and reach for it.
Along the way, some things get left behind. Sometimes you can't reclaim the stuff you lost. The Mr. broke a vase I got from my grandma the day after I put it on my kitchen table. Broken vases and broken hearts cannot always be restored to what they were. That vase that survived decades in my grandma's basement survived twenty four hours in our house. It hurt my heart to put it in the trash. For a while I thought about it being the favorite of the things I had from her, that nothing would ever replace it. There's a certain panic to losing something that you know cannot ever be replaced.
That is the magic of redemption. God never leaves us surrounded by broken glass. The panic isn't real. I am not a creator, I cannot form another vase and if I could; it wouldn't be my grandma's anyway.
But the Creator redeems life in a different way. He doesn't fix, he recreates. He makes us into something new, in fact he uses the broken pieces and creates something glorious out of it. His redemption is the ocean that my redecoration represents as a droplet. His plans are beyond my imagination.
He allows the broken vase to go into the garbage can without suffocating regret. He says to us, "It's OK, I can fix it."
We hunger to redeem, our homes and our bodies and our finances; because we hunger to be redeemed.
Now we need to realize that redemption is never finished, like the repair of a house. It's forever until we are forever.

What I Inherited

Both of my grandmothers have passed in the last 10 months. This has left us barely having finished the work of sorting through one life before we've started the next task. Another house with eighty one years represented in 900 or so square feet. You have to do this kind of work slowly and carefully, like an archaeologist who brushes away each layer, careful not to miss some treasure. As we worked at my Grandma Tookie (ie my dad's mom's) house, we'd joke, "Hey, I just found the mid seventies!" Although the way-back machine went way backer than that.
My Grandma Tookie (also known as the Took-woman and Diana when differentiating between she and Eleanor, my other gramma), was Armenian and English Canadian. Point of reference, she always referred to herself as French Canadian, we don't know why. Her father Arthur (Great Grandpa Mezigian) was one of two children who survived the Armenian genocide to immigrate to America. I know that impacted her life in more ways than I will ever understand. Her father's frame of reference was one that very few could share, the first-hand witness of the murder of a nation including his parents through a child's eyes. What did this young man think, feel and treasure as he raised his children? And what did he teach Diana to treasure? I am the now the representative of the Mezigian survivors of the Armenian genocide. Not me alone of course. But the responsibility is still mine. I am the keeper. I am the one to ensure that Arthur Mezigian's treasures, passed to his daughter remain to be honored.
When you are a part of the immigrant culture from the first half of the century, those treasures are not so simple as you might think to unearth. They are kept hidden deep in places where the Turkish Army or immigration officers or slum lords cannot find them. There was no family gold to survive, only the minds, muscles and sinew of those few chosen people carry the treasures.
Furthermore, those early great grandparents of mine were not poets and scholars. They left no lengthy journals to express the years of desperation. The ways they were changed forever are not marked in hieroglyphics on a cave wall. They had no time to write plays or novels about their lives. They hit the ground of Delray running. When you need money to eat that becomes the point on which your family focuses. My grandfather shared stories of his life which my grandmother remembered and shared but they were not enough to understand the heart. They were a retelling of events. I want to know, after all of the pain and struggle; what remained? How did this shape them, us, me?
And so with great pleasure and a careful hand we spent three weeks digging. I am joyful to tell you that my grandmother was a keeper of history second only to Henry Ford. She just lacked a museum and a village. And to steal a phrase, it would take a village to house her history. That remark about unearthing the seventies is not just exaggeration. My son walked away wearing a heavy gold donkey necklace from the Carter/Democrat era after day one.
One day my parents and I sat for a long time poring over old photographs. I knew these people were Armenian because they look as unrelated to me as they could possibly be. Somehow this blue-eyed blond fell out of a tree full of dark haired, browned eyed, olive skinned Armenians. These were old pictures, frayed and delicate. Formal wedding portraits and pictures of young people laughing on the river front. One marked "Reid" which was my dad's first glimpse at his own great grandfather. Babies in the arms of young aunts and uncles in basements celebrating holidays. My grandma and her sister in broad shoulder pads, ankle strap shoes and hats. The forties. My great uncles in basketball uniforms, the thirties. Young Armenian men in American military uniforms. The next generation still fighting for freedom.
All day long for three weeks one question floated up from the basement and out of bedroom doors, "Does anyone want this?" We'd all drop what we were doing to run and examine "this." Sometimes a photograph of one of us being silly in the old backyard pool. By default you get to keep the pictures of yourself. My dad's army badges and Boy Scout projects. I claimed the giant red sled that used to sit on the television at Christmas time. I thought I was just taking home a piece of my childhood until my dad told me that at age eight he made that sled in Boy Scouts. Even better.
I claimed some mid-century coffee cups, a cast iron skillet and a load of gaudy jewelry that defined my grandma's look. Oh, and I also took her giant jewelry chest to house what has become known as my beads.
The photographs were divided between my dad and my aunt. Of course as far as I'm concerned anything in my parents' house is mine and Amy's so that works out. It's the stuff from the seventies and back that I am drawn to. I picked old platters out of the garbage when everyone said, "I can't take any more stuff!" I can't take any more stuff either but I did. Lord knows what will become of it.
All I know is that a young man survived with nothing. And a young girl was raised by immigrants with nothing. And pictures prove that my childhood was full of Christmas gifts, birthday cakes and backyard pools. There is something there amongst the nothing. Someone said, "It will be different for them" and meant me. One day someone had enough money to buy a fancy platter at Montgomery Wards or Sears. I picture my Grandma paying money that would've been unheard of during her childhood to buy a pretty bowl for Christmas when her parents would come for dinner in the basement. I imagine my great grand parents being amazed at the wealth of just one generation beyond their own desperation.
So I took the few remnants of coffee cups from the 1960s. I took a couple of platters that only came out for Christmas. I took the beads.
This is the treasure from William Street. That we could spend three weeks looking through eighty one years and try to talk one another into taking items home saying, "I don't need that. I have too much stuff already."
Every time I drink coffee from the one surviving white mid-century coffee cup with the matching saucer, I will remember that a poor immigrant raised a daughter. I will remember that a group of people with no hope demanded life not just of survival but of change.
Beads and coffee cups and platters that I can see in those old photographs when my grandmother and her brothers and sister were young and raising families. My great grand parents sitting in the background smiling.
It's no wonder we all feel like we don't have enough room for any more.

Deuteronomy 7:9 Know therefore that the LORD your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands.

Picture: Arthur Mezigian, my great grandfather. Now we know where Mac got his hair.

August 17, 2008

Job 11:16-18 You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by. Life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning. You will be secure, because there is hope; you will look about you and take your rest in safety.

Buncha Nothin

1. I can't think of a list so here is a collection of miscellaneous statements.
2. I woke up at 5:44 this morning.
3. I am wearing beige shorts.
4. I would rather be slightly too warm and not run the air conditioning.
5. I listen to Doctor Radio on satellite every afternoon on my drive home.
6. I have a clear glass bowl of lemon balm on my kitchen table.
7. My feet hurt.
8. I love a good ink pen.
9. I am going to prune and water after I post this.
10. I don't know why anyone reads this blog.

Welcome To The Pumpkin Pat(ch)

Well I am de-crankied because it is Friday, I'm home and work is over for the week. Dinner's cooking and I'm about to toss a salad. The Mr. is on his way home and Donny is laying in his yard hole. Jay will be here in a bit for dinner and Mac's out with friends. Can't think of much to complain about besides my big butt which is self-induced so no use complaining about it.
I love my home and my family. I'm told on a daily basis that people care about me. I wore a brooch in my hair to work today and my pastor has promised a short service on Sunday morning.
In closing, some of you may think my mother's recent foray into weird head gear was a departure. Let me correct that assumption by directing your attention to the picture at the upper left of this post. This is a pumpkin hat. Just like the one she wore for most of Wednesday.
This should explain a lot about why I am like I am, brooch in my hair and all.

Sara The

Boy, what a long day today has been. I worked at my grandmother's house with my parents most of yesterday and must've used some rarely used muscles. My arms and hands and butt (yes, my butt) are so sore. Even my feet are sore! I did not want to get rolling when that alarm clock sounded this morning for work. I laid there thinking about how much I wish I was off today just to rest. But, up and at 'em.
I, of course, ended up working late and then being late for my niece's birthday dinner. That got me home late. After about ten minutes chatting with the Mr. I realize, I am grouchy.
I'm tired and achy and cranky like a little kid who should've had a nap. So instead of sniping at him and grouching at him like I want to, I'm headed for a long hot shower and a little reading in bed before I hit the hay.
Hopefully he (and I) will look better by the light of day...tomorrow.
For tonight, I'm cranky and he don't look so good to me. ;)
Good night!

Mucho Nacho

Well I am on my last day of a few days off this morning and headed once again to grandma's house to work with my parents. It's a mixture of nostalgia and sadness but I think in a way it's also a catharsis; it's healthy. And I can't help but think about what a better house she's living in now so at the end of the day, every day is a good one.
Last night I went to my first Tiger game in a few years. The Mr. always purchases tickets assuming I'll go and I always do everything in my power not to go. It's not that I don't enjoy myself once I get there so much as I'm such a home body that "here" is always better than "there." So I went with no excuses not to as I didn't have to get up for work this morning and I liked the company.
One of the Mr.'s (and by association, my) best friends went with us. Marty is a musician and he and Dean have that joined at the musical DNA thing going on. Those of you who don't know Marty should still be impressed with him since you know I don't hang out with just anybody, especially outdoors in a large crowd!
The Mr. has an unnatural love of this thing at Comerica Park called the Mucho Nacho. Basically it's a giant plastic sombrero filled with various nacho stuffs including synthetic cheese topping. Those of you who know the Mr. (or have been to Frankenmuth with him) will also understand that he insisted Marty eat a Mucho Nacho as well, despite the fact that Marty didn't particularly want a Mucho Nacho. It does not matter, the Mr. is very dictator when it comes to outtings and the food eaten therein. But Marty is a good guy so he ate the Mucho Nacho. No word on how the Mucho Nacho is treating him this morning.
Being that I don't care about making the Mr. feel good about himself, I refused the Mucho Nacho and ate a Hebrew National hot dog which was all kinds of delicious and some of them cinnamon almond or pecan things or whatever they are. The point is we spent too much money on ballpark food and the Mr. eats disgusting food and forces his friends to do the same.
I did not get one of those giant foam fingers that I usually insist on when I got to events. I'm maturing.
Much to my surprise I did enjoy myself and I'm glad I went. The Mr. and I were just saying a few days ago that we are at this point where we suddenly look around and realize that we have this amazing core of friends (mostly musicians, go figure) that are just much a natural part of our lives as breathing. People whose company is easy and with whom you can talk and laugh or sit watching a ball game or just be with and know that God has given you these friends.
We're through trying to force ourselves outside of our comfort zone to be best friends with people we like but who just aren't meant to be in that special circle of people. The Mr. is wired to worship and so are his friends. I fit in there somewhere but I don't know for sure how. I think it's my running commentary that keeps it interesting.
There's an old poem about friends for the moment and friends for the distance or something like that. I go away grateful every time I'm with that circle of people. One of them I've been dragging around since she was in middle school and we have those fifteen years worth of life that makes us able to speak in glances and single words. Some of them I've known for just a little while. And some people we of the inner circle have voted on and rejected. Ha! You can decide if I'm kidding on that or not.
Anyway, speaking as someone who is socially inept and has to be dragged kicking and screaming and mumbling sarcastic remarks from my house; I'm glad I married a guy with such good taste in friends. That way I get all of the benefit with none of the effort. It works out really well.
Meanwhile, Viva Le Mucho Nacho.

Proverbs 17:17 A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

The Birds

So my mom refuses to share this store leaving it to me to be the keeper of family legend and lore.
We were organizing my grandmother's house together yesterday and had gotten to Christmas decorations. My grandmother had no shortage of Christmas decorations. For several years, she was into white birds on her tree. Amongst the white birds we find a white partridge with one of those clip things so you can attach it to the Christmas tree limb.
It takes my mom and I about four hours at any given task together to get stupid. Once looking for prom dresses we ended up on the Lodge and couldn't get off and decided that it was originally called the Beaver Lodge. At this point we couldn't find the exit for laughter and snots. My mom was yelling, "Shut up and help me find an exit!" while I'm saying, "It kind of looks like a beaver dug it out anyway."
My son Mac has the same gene. Shopping for home goods he started up with some ridiculous story about meeting the pope who told mac, "Call me Popey" and then gave him five dollars. This made my sister pee her pants right there in Sak's Fifth Avenue.
Many years ago there was a bird in my parents' basement and the Mr., who was at that time the boyfriend, walks past us with a Dorrito on his shoulder, his plan being that the bird would land on his shoulder to eat the Dorrito and he'd simply walk it out.
You see how it goes.
So my mom and I find this clippy white partridge and she puts it in her hair, of course.
Then we notice the junk man driving by and she decides that he could pick up the stove if we catch him. You see where this is headed. She ran outside to call him in and proceeded to have a lengthy discussion with him about the stove and some other items we'd like removed. With the partridge in her hair.
I called her attention to it about fifteen minutes after he left.

Provision

Usually the Mr. does the grocery shopping but on Friday, I ventured out. Mostly because we were down to ice cubes and diet Pepsi if you don't count my mint and lemon balm as food stuffs. My bill was $193. With no frills. Five or so nights worth of dinners. Laundry soap and a kitchen remodeling magazine. No lunch supplies for little kids. No Starbucks coffee (Folgers Black Silk). Just a week's worth of plain old dinners and the few necessities. In fact, the Mr. went out on Saturday to buy water and a few things I'd forgotten. And I made another stop for shampoo and such; another $48. As I took out my bonus card and paid my bill, I did not feel anxious but so thankful to be able to simply pay and be on my way with my week's worth of groceries. We're not rich by a long shot but we can afford food.
There was a time in our lives when I did all of the grocery shopping because I was a full time home maker. And while I wax eloquent about that time before I was working; there was a price for the luxury of staying at home with daboyz. The price was we were stinking poor. Every week I'd tell the Mr. I was off to buy groceries and without fail we'd have the same conversation, "What is the least about of money you need to get us through this week?" I hated that conversation. It seemed that no matter how many corners I cut, I still spent too much on groceries. I think his goal was for Farmer Jack to pay us to take home food. I'd get a knot in my stomach just anticipating the grocery conversation. I'd go to the store with a calculator and add up every penny that I put in my shopping cart fearing going over the limit before I ran out of aisles. And about half of the time, I'd have to go back through the store returning this item so I could afford that item. I was torn between paying with cash to force me to stay on budget or writing a check to force him to cover our expenses. The problem with theory number two was that in those days, over spending on groceries meant not paying another bill. Grocery shopping seemed like a huge burden on my shoulders every week. We'd sink or swim on my choice of breakfast cereals. I think those days of cutting corners to the extreme had a lot to do with my weight gain because eating fat is cheaper than eating skinny. Not to mention eating fat is a small comfort when you're flat broke. This is why the Mr. now grocery shops. I figured, let him try to live within his own budget.
In hindsight and having survived those years, I can't say I regret staying home. It was way hard and I don't want to go back there. I'm glad it's over. That's probably why I don't mourn my twenties and didn't freak when I turned forty. Probably why my kids graduating high school and growing up is nothing but happiness for me. It means the days of white knuckle grocery shopping and praying that the winter coats would fit for one more year is over. Thank you Jesus.
Now I find myself doing what my parents and grandparents were probably doing; worrying about how young families can afford to survive in this environment. If my grocery bill makes me gasp; what about the young mom or dad with little ones who don't have twenty years seniority in their pay check and a second income to stretch the budget? Now that $193 grocery bill really isn't about the money draining from my account. It's concern for the people walking where I was walking.
If you're there, I am praying for you today. You'll be ok. You'll make it. You'll use that calculator and find out which restaurants feed kids free on which nights (because then it's cheaper to eat out.) You'll eat a lot of hog dogs and mac and cheese. Time will pass and you'll take a deep breath having lived through it all. And then you'll worry about the next generation of young families. It will be your turn to pray.

Father, I ask you to extend your hand to young families struggling not for luxuries but to afford food and clothing for their kids. I ask you to cover their minds with peace and increase their faith. I ask you to grant them wisdom as they try to find money where it doesn't seem to exist and bring them blessings in the form of provision. You Father are able to send manna from heaven and draw water from a rock. This is not too difficult for you. Meet the needs of these men and women. Let them not go so long in crisis that they are crushed but show them your miraculous love as week by week they see you hand at work. Burden the hearts of those who are able to be your hands and feet that we would be the bearer of the help that they need. May this not be a time in their lives of desolation but of the revelation that they are loved by you and your people and never alone. Lord, I come boldly to you to say that pretty words are not enough when you have run out of milk before you have run out of week. Send help in a real way. I thank you God, knowing that you are Jehovah Jireh; Provider. The cattle on a thousand hills are yours and these families are your children. Send them manna. Amen.


Deuteronomy 6:10 When the LORD your God brings you into the land he swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, to give you—a land with large, flourishing cities you did not build, 11 houses filled with all kinds of good things you did not provide, wells you did not dig, and vineyards and olive groves you did not plant—then when you eat and are satisfied, 12 be careful that you do not forget the LORD, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery.

August 10, 2008

Jeremiah 32:17 Ah, Sovereign LORD, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you.

Things That Are Hard For Me

1. Not checking my work e mail when I'm off.
2. Getting motivated to mop the floor.
3. Resisting carbs.
4. Having regular bowel movements. Aren't you glad you checked in today?
5. Finding comfortable shoes.
6. Not fussing at my family about leaving their junk around the house. Really, is it that hard for me to put a pop can into the bin?
7. Being a social butterfly, I'm more in a social cocoon.
8. Talking on the phone.
9. Making myself exercise.
10. Pursuing Christ like I know I should.

The Line That Has Finally Moved

We have all officially moved up one space in line now. The grandparents are all gone, mine that is. I think figuring out exactly what that means will be a work in progress. So far I have figured out that it means no more screw-ups; there's nobody to bail me out! In fact, Jesus help us, I may need to do the bailing!
There is a weird kind of feeling not having to do things like we've always done them and then trying to decide, now what? How much do we let evolve and change and how much to we cling to fiercely to pass on to future generations? It is time to be solid, to be the foundation. The problem is that yesterday I was the granddaughter which means by default the child. At the age I am now, my mom was a grandmother. I can remember vividly when my own grandparents were about my age. Simple math would prove that indeed, the line is moving forward.
I am beyond blessed to have had all of these grandparents, I even had great-grands for much of my life. My kids' employers were taken aback that they needed bereavement for their great grandmother. Nobody, or so it seems, has relationships with great grandparents. And that relationship has been a close one, not the elderly relative in the nursing home kind of grand parents. The living in the homes they have always lived in five minutes away grandparents. There at every family function. So close we speak in shorthand quoting them to one another and knowing exactly what we mean. Right down to my kids. What wealth. Wealth that I seem to have inherited before I am quite sure what to do with it.
I wonder if my parents feel a burden to now hold those positions that we all are tethered to, like kites being held by their hands passed from their own parents hands. How inexplicable it must be, to mourn your parents and guide your children and grand children in the same moment.
My grandparents always seemed so knowing, so capable and so well defined. How can I possibly be that way now? Already? Or do my boys already see me as more than I see myself to be?
How can it be too soon and yet we are in such small company to have had them for so long?
And how can I have lost all of my grandparents, who each had a nickname for me and put such a fingerprint on me and still feel peaceful and complete?
This may be the only question I can answer today. Robert and Eleanor Gerhardstein; Harold and Diana Trent loved me incredibly. And surrounded me with prayer and with Jesus. When the line moved forward, they just stepped one step closer to him and out of my sight. They stepped into heaven. And that is why I know we will all be fine. We too, have stepped one step closer to heaven. And to them.

Psalm 24:6 Such is the generation of those who seek him, who seek your face, O God of Jacob. Selah

Body Surfing

My husband recently teased me that "everybody" gets on my nerves. He is more or less correct. Partly because I am simply not a people person and I'd rather be alone most of the time, I guess by default you could say that people get on my nerves. Secondly because people just get on my nerves, period. They irritate me sometimes. And some of them irritate me all of the time. The Mr., on the other hand, is rarely irritated. I do find it amusing that he will state that someone is "just an idiot, what do you expect" and then deny that they irritate him.
As a young bride there were relatives on my husband's side that irritated me no end. I ran the spectrum from full-on desperate (and humiliating) attempts to win their favor to downright not caring and telling them so when my attempts kept falling flat. Of course, these folks also let me know that I irritated them. Which irritated me even further. How dare they! Of course, I now am quite certain they were saying, "How dare she!"
We all irritate each other. That is the long and short of it. As sure as people irritate me, I am well aware that I can be as equally offensive. It is the nature of living amongst this filthy rabble we call humanity. In general, we're just idiots, what do you expect?
The problem with my relationship with the "other side" back in those days was that I was shocked and hurt that I irritated them and they likewise. None of us were mature enough to realize that real relationships are like body surfing, you ride to the crest and back down again. Struggling against the tide just pulls you into the under tow.
I think it's normal that people sometimes irritate, annoy, aggravate, offend and disappoint us. In fact, I think it might be an exercise in growth if we are able to simply allow that reality to reflect back. If I find you so irritating, it's likely you or someone else sees me in the same light. For the sake of change? Sometimes. On a grander scale I see it for the sake of grace. I wanted Dean's family to see me as all kinds of wonderful and therefore love me. But that isn't really love. Love sees the cracks in our facades and either reaches out to repair them or sees them as part of a beautiful whole.
When someone irritates me, I need to remember my own need for grace; stretch out my arms and let my body ride the crest of life. If not, we will all drown in the struggle.


Isaiah 57:19 & 20 "...creating praise on the lips of the mourners in Israel. Peace, peace, to those far and near,"says the LORD. "And I will heal them. But the wicked are like the tossing sea,which cannot rest,whose waves cast up mire and mud.

My Burqa

With the political and international climate in which we all exist, there has been an increased awareness of other cultures. Considering the events of the last eight years, the current Middle Eastern conflicts and the United States involvement in Iraq, most of us know what a burqa is. Living in Dearborn, MI; I live amongst women who wear a burqa and have no choice but to become accustomed to this previously foreign attire. In case you're wondering, I do not wear a burqa although there are days when it would be an improvement.
I am not for or against the burqa, it is simply a statement reflecting a different ethnicity. I know it represents oppression to some and modesty to others. And I whole heartedly agree with the requirements in some situations for the wearer's face to be exposed for the sake of security. But political and social issues aren't what I generally think of as I pass a woman wearing a burqa. I think of religion.
I am not speaking of how the faith of the Muslim community differs from mine. I'm talking about how this expression of belief makes me pause to consider my own and what it means in my own daily appearance. The burqa leaves no doubt about what the woman inside means to express. The burqa represents the wearer's modesty. It makes me think about the idea that this woman has reserved parts of herself for only her husband. In this, the burqa speaks to me.
I was raised in a conservative Pentacostal church and in a home where the church rules were not changed for private life. There was never a question about modesty and purity in my upbringing. I was taught that my sexuality was created for only my husband. That husband was as real to me as a young girl long before I knew who he was as it is to me today, nearing 22 years of marriage. You could say, I wear a spiritual burqa. My parents wrapped me in this spiritual burqa when I was born and when I chose to remove it, it was on my wedding night.
My burqa covers my body that only my husband is permitted to see and touch. It covers my eyes reminding me that he is the only man that I am to be drawn to. It covers my head reminding me to discipline my thoughts. It covers my mouth reminding me to keep from conversations that compromise the purity of my intimate relationship with this one man, my husband.
My burqa makes it very hard to compromise what I am supposed to be. Just as a physical burqa makes the statement that this woman is in no way public property, my spiritual burqa keeps hidden those things which are not meant to be exposed except between Dean and me.
I don't think we all need to put on burqas. But I do think these women have surpassed the American public in wisdom by placing such high regard on their purity. They have maintained a determination to keep themselves for only their husbands. We have gotten too comfortable with our marriages and in doing so make what should be sacred common. That which is common will be quickly compromised.
I am grateful for my burqa. It makes me uncomfortable when other men cross a line with touch or words. It makes me keep certain aspects of my marriage within my heart and stops me from discussing those most intimate moments even with other women. It saves me the heartache of impulsive choices or secrets I must hide from my husband. In difficult moments, it ensures that these other people, everyone except Dean and Sara stand outside of us. That we share with each other this thing that makes us one.
A burqa can be taken off within the home and in the presence of a woman's husband. A burqa can also be put on at will. There is no one, regardless of culture, who has not compromised in deed, thought or conversation what God has created in marriage. Certainly not me. But I cover my head, my eyes, my mouth and my body as soon as I am reminded that this is what protects me and not what inhibits me.
It is never too late to learn the lesson of the burqa.

Psalm 51:10 Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

August 3, 2008

Psalm 30:5 For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.

Top Ten Reasons To Come To Baxter's Tonight

1. The headliner is Dean-Marty-Eddie-Chad-Barry-Tina.
2. At intermission there will be a name the band contest, winner gets ONE MILLION DOLLARS!
3. I've been listening to these songs for months, why shouldn't you listen for one evening?
4. Sitting at a high top is fun!
5. Steven Tyler is opening.
6. A rare opportunity to spot me out in public, maybe.
7. Pastor Jeremy is buying ice cream for the first 100 guests.
8. See for yourself who's right; the Mr. says Chad has 18 ear piercings, I say a few less.
9. A free ride home from your choice of band member if you get drunk.
10. Someday when they're famous you'll be able to say, "I was there the night Chad was so poor he had to sell one of his piercings for a cup of coffee and that's why he only has 17 today, Pastor Jeremy refused to pay up for the ice cream and Marty arrested him, I got so drunk that Steven Tyler drove me home and I am the one that gave them the name Ham Stand which is why I am a millionaire today. They say Sara was there..."

Baxter's @ 7:30 Saturday night (Tonight!)
P.S. If you go to the Baxter's website, the coming events are for April. We don't know why. If you need directions, call Steven Tyler. We're too busy for such foolishness. **Baxter's is attached to Metro South Church in Trenton, MI.

Pic: Steven Tyler at the last gig he opened for Dean.

Donny?

Top pic: Donny
Bottom pic: Black & Tan "Max" at the Franklin, Tennessee Animal Rescue