Definitions

Dedicated to my Pastor, Rev. H Leon Ben-Ezra on the occasion of his retirement

def·i·ni·tions

You taught us what those church words meant

Always pointing to the One He sent.

“Believe the gospel. First repent.”

You taught us definitions.

Through many sermons some of us wept

And I confess through some I slept

But even so, I did not forget

All those definitions.

Hope – waiting on God His promises to keep.

Joy is optimism

Glory – His beauty that runs so deep.

You taught us definitions.

“It always begins with prayer!”

You showed us to not despair

For when your life was not so fair

You lived those definitions.

And now it’s off to Illinois you go;

To Peoria and Chicago

But as you leave always know

You’ve left us with true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, praiseworthy

Definitions.

Relationships are Like Meatloaf

(This was originally posted August 4, 2010, but I still find it current and releavnt)

You can’t make a good meatloaf without mixing it up with your hands. You have to dig in to the gloppy mess up to your wrists, bread crumbs under your fingernails, grease coating your hands.

Some cooks will try to mix everything with a spoon, but this creates a splotchy, not so appetizing product.

Other cooks are only willing to get their hands so dirty so the various ingredients never really blend together and the end result is inconsistent and not as flavorful as it could be.

When a cook plunges their hands in to the meat and eggs and seasonings, being sure to spread everything around, the resulting loaf is a savory delight. This messy amalgam becomes a fulfilling meal and produces leftovers for days to come. In fact, the leftovers are better the next day once everything has had a chance to meld. Good meatloaves hold up well in the freezer, as well reminding the diners of the chef’s great skills, long after the initial meal was enjoyed.

Relationships are like meatloaves. The best ones can be very messy, at times. Those who keep their distance with the spoon find meatloaf bland and not to their liking. Those who only half-heartedly mix things up never experience the satisfaction a great meatloaf.

Those who are willing to dive in with both hands, who fully commit to the work involved, they get to enjoy this full sensory feast. Sometimes onions may produce tears, salt may sting a previously unnoticed cut, a hidden piece of eggshell may lodge itself painfully under a fingernail. But still the end result – the ultimate in comfort food – is worth it, with leftovers and memories  feeding the soul for many meals.

A Ghost of Christmas Past

My mother had an annual Christmas tradition where she would take each of her four children with her on a shopping expedition to downtown Pittsburgh.  This was treasured alone time with my mom.  We'd take the street car to town and look at the holiday window displays at Kaufmann's, Gimbel's, and Horne's department stores.  The tradition also included lunch at a coffee shop (I can't remember the name) where they toasted the hamburger bun - a gourmet touch to my young palate, since for our family buns themselves were a splurge.  Our hamburgers at home were served on sliced bread.

 

On one such expedition, when I was about four or five, my mom helped me pick out my gift for my father - handkerchiefs.  When we got home I quickly ran to my dad, jumped in his lap and with childhood excitement told him I'd chosen his gift.  Teasingly, I said to him "I won't tell you what it is but you can blow your nose in it!". 

 

You know, he never was able to decipher my hint and he was really surprised on Christmas morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bathroom Humor

The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.  For the record, the identifying numbers are in no way indicative of their level of friendship to me; the numbers were just assigned in the chronology in which they appeared in the story.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went camping at a local State Park with four families from church.  Our campsite was what is called a "walk-in" site; that is, we had to walk over a small bridge, on a path, over another small bridge, and up another path littered with exposed tree roots.  Though not too dangerous, you still had to pay attention when walking.  The washrooms were located just a short distance from our site, but across the road.  Therefore, you had to navigate the aforementioned bridges, hill and tree roots each time you needed/wanted to use the restroom.

The weather for our trip was wonderful.  Not too hot, not too cold, and little rain.  However, rain from the previous week had made parts of our wooded campsite a bit boggy.  On Friday night there were brief and gentle showers, but not a soaking rain.  The paths were a bit muddy and slick, so more care had to be taken when travelling to the bathrooms. 

About 2:00 am Saturday morning, I woke needing to use the bathroom.  I put it off as long as I could because I really didn't want to walk "over the river and through the woods" to the bathroom.  Finally, I could no longer ignore nature's call so I threw on a pair of shorts under my nightshirt, slipped on my sandals, grabbed my flashlight and carefully walked in the dark of night over and around the tree roots to take care of business.

The next morning we women compared notes on our prior night's sleep.  Friend #1 mentioned that she had had to get up in the wee hours to - umm, well...wee.  Friend #2 said she too had to avail herself of the facilities because her preschooler had to go number one.  I shared my own precarious travels through the pitch dark woods when Friend #3 piped in "I had to go, too but I just went out behind the tent by a tree." (For the record, Friend #4, pregnant and camping with a toddler was still deservedly asleep in her tent during the conversation).

It was a shock and awe moment for me.  I was in awe of Friend #3's guts and openness.  I was in shock that she would boldly expose her behind at camp with - well, not total strangers but certainly not real family, either.  And these were church people, at that.  What would have happened if one of the kids or husbands had gotten up at the same time???

Saturday was a beautiful, fun-filled day.  We hiked, we swam, we ate a fantastic meal cooked over the campfire (Garlic Rosemary Pork Loin thanks to Friend #1, and venison steaks thanks to Friend #4 and her husband).  However, during s'more time it began to rain.  It wasn't a very hard rain, but it was steady and we all got a good soaking.

After we packed up the food,  put various equipment under cover and secured camp, we all turned in for the night.  In addition to being wet from the rain, I was also pretty sticky from sweat and humidity.  It's hard enough to undress when sticky, but to do so in the confines of a small, two-man tent is next to impossible so I decided to go to sleep in my clothes - a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

About 2:00 am, nature again tapped on my shoulder.  Well, actually she pounded on my bladder.  I tried to ignore her, but she was persistent.  I had no desire to walk the dark, tree-root strewn incline to the bathroom.  At that time I remembered Friend #3's boldness and decided to follow her example.  It was still raining, and I dreaded getting wet once again and having to go back to sleep in damp, sweaty clothes so I brazenly stripped off my shorts and carefully snuck out of my tent to the nearest, most private tree, in the darkest of spots.

Mid crouch I had a horrible thought.  What would happen if some cheeky raccoon came along and bit my exposed cheeks?  What if one of my camp mates came along on their way to the facilities?  What if it was one of the kids?    The thought terrified me and I started to have an anxiety attack, at which point my legs got a bit weak and shaky.  This brought on an even more horrible thought.  What would happen if I fell over and broke a hip?  Should I yell for help and bring everyone running or should I just lie in the mud until someone (hopefully only ONE, not many) got up?

As usual, I worried for nothing.  I completed the necessary task, returned to my tent and redressed, tucking myself safely in to my sleeping bag, leaving no part of me exposed.  I had exposed enough for one night.

Drifting off to sleep, I thought about what had just happened.  Camping with these friends, I was seeing more of their real selves; their faces sans makeup (the women) and unshaven (the men), faults and foibles being revealed.  Had Friend #3 not been so open as to mention her exploit of the prior evening, I would have stomped through mud and tripped over tree roots, getting rained on and feeling miserable.  Her transparency made my life a bit easier.

In fact, living with these folks for only a weekend I was able to see some of their true selves emerge.  Their frustration, impatience and weariness were on full display; like the proverbial elephant in the room, these couldn't be easily covered up in this venue.  I even saw little 2-year old ZW, a child with whom I am enamored, throw a temper tantrum or two.  But I also witnessed many acts of patience, kindness and generosity.  Our little campsite was a community much like our home neighborhoods and churches should be.  In a tent community, privacy is limited; there are no doors or windows behind which to hide or keep people out.

Isn’t this how the church is supposed to be?  Isn’t this how we’re supposed to be with each other?  And aren’t we supposed to give and expect compassion and forgiveness from our Christian brothers and sisters when (not if) we fail?  We keep our mistakes and sins to ourselves due to pride; our own and that of other Christians.  We’re afraid of facing judgment – justly and unjustly.  In trying to save face we deny ourselves the opportunity to experience grace.

As I think of all the embarrassing possibilities of what could have happened to me that dark night in the woods, I think that had any of those horrors come to pass those are the people with whom I would care to share my mortification.  They would have laughed – at me, with me, whatever (hey, it’s funny).  Because of their love for Jesus, I know they love me.  It is with these people I bare my soul; it for these people that I will bear their burdens.  But I hope to never bare my bottom again.  I think we all are of one mind on that!

If Money Had Been No Object

On this date last year my sister, Cassie died.  At that time, I was tasked with the responsibility and the privilege to write her obituary.  Because of space and financial considerations (you have to pay the newspaper for extra words), I was limited in what I could publish.  If I'd had unlimited funds, this is the obituary I would have written.  And this is the obituary she deserved.

Mary Catherine (Cassie) Best Kraus King died in her sleep on June 9, 2012 at her home in Odessa, Texas.  She was born on August 15, 1956 - a Wednesday.  "Wednesday's child is full of woe..." and Cassie had her share of woe.  But on that day in 1956 her parents, John Edward and Jean Shirley Hammerton Best, greeted her with joy and much love.

She was named Mary because August 15 is a Catholic Holy Day - the Feast of the Assumption  of Mary.  Her middle name Catherine was after her paternal grandmother, Catherine Carney Best.  The name Cassie came about because her sister Jean (Jean Wright) couldn't pronounce Cathy.  Her parents called her Cassie Assie, but because she wasn't allowed to say "ass" she referred to herself as "Cassie Bum Bum".

She was the third of four children - Bruce Best, Jean Wright and Barbara Best.  In addition to her father and siblings, she is survived by her son Steven Michael (Julie) Kraus and two grandchildren, Damian and Skylar.

Family was important to her and so she would have liked to include all her aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, great nieces and nephews, steps-, friends who were as close as family, etc in this list. And she could have named every one, along with their birthdays and anniversaries!

She attended St Lawrence O'Toole Elementary School, Ursuline Academy, and for a time, Clarion State University.  She graduated from Allegheny County Vo-Tech with a degree in Practical Nursing and was a Licensed Practical Nurse.

As a young teen Cassie had thyroid problems that were possibly thought to be cancerous.  She was finally diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis and had to have her thyroid surgically removed.  It was serious surgery for it's time and a cause of great worry for her parents.  The surgery was successful and the experience may have fueled her nurturing skills.

From an early age, Cassie demonstrated great nursing skills.  She often tended to her siblings and parents when they were sick or hospitalized.  Highly intelligent, she understood medical science, but her best professional skill was her compassion and desire to ease people's pain.  Prior to her nursing career she worked at a church bingo refreshment stand, as a Laundromat attendant, a hospital food service worker  and a waitress, always serving people.  She was an advocate for her patients and any downtrodden she thought were being disrespected and ignored.  You would not want to be the Customer Service representative who was rude to a hapless customer!  Cassie would have had no problem coming from the back of the line to dress down said representative for the sake of a total stranger.  And if the customer happened to be rude to the person behind the counter, she'd take them on as well.

Cassie had a variety of interests.  Her musical taste ranged from Elvis to Elton John to... (gasp) Barry Manilow.  She loved to read - anything from Best Sellers to gossip rags.  It was the latter that made her a killer Trivial Pursuit player, especially in the Arts & Entertainment category.

Her taste in food was far from refined.  Cassie's favorite Italian meal was Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O's.  She liked Potato Buds over homemade mashed potatoes and LaChoy over any Chinese restaurant.  However, she was quite particular about stuffing.  It had to be homemade - her mother's recipe; StoveTop was no substitute.  Cassie's culinary skills were not top-notch, either; but she WAS able to duplicate Mommy's stuffing (for which there is no written recipe, it's totally by "feel & taste") like no one else in the family.

 Her greatest love was for her son, Steven - her "Bunny Boy", and his family.  She adored her granddaughter, Skylar or, as she referred to her "Skylab".  She wanted for Steven every experience, every advantage.  She scraped together money for him to take a few flying lessons, and took him on a trip to New York City.  And there were also the numerous trips to Cedar Point...  Steve inherited his love of roller coasters from her.  Though she enjoyed coasters, she would still try to protect Steve and any one who was riding next to her, by putting her arm up in front of them to stop them from falling out - again, sometimes total strangers.

It would be easy to ignore or gloss over the "full of woe" portion of Cassie's life, but it was part of what made her - and she would be angry if I didn't acknowledge it.  Throughout most of her life, Cassie struggled with substance abuse and suffered the physical, emotional, social and legal ramifications.  It may have been what killed her, we don't know.  At the very least, it contributed to her way too early death.

I don't know what caused her addictions.  I wonder if maybe it was her great compassion and empathy; her ability to feel others' pain.  Perhaps Cassie was so sensitive to everyone's hurt that she was overwhelmed by it and sought relief in drugs and alcohol.  I don't know.  Nobody does.

In January, 2012 I read the book "A Praying Life" by Paul Miller and was struck by the need to pray for my sister in a regular and very concerted way.  The verse that came to mind when I prayed for her was Matthew 11:28 - "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  I did this quite often over the next few months.  After she died, I was sorting through the prayer cards I kept for various people and thought to myself wryly, "Well, I don't need this one anymore". 

(Yes, it's a sick joke; but Cassie would have liked it.  She would have laughed at it...hard.  Her only complaint would have been that I'd said it before she did.)

Thinking about my prayers, I realized God had answered this prayer.  This wasn't the rest I'd expected Him to give her, but Cassie is at rest.  As a teenager, she'd made a commitment to Christ; she knew that her own good works were not enough to please God; she couldn't do enough of them to earn salvation.  And at that time, she'd done quite a few good works.  To look at her life afterwards - the stints in rehab, the times in jail, and all the other ugly acts - it didn't look like she was "living for Jesus".  But pull back the curtains that cover our lives and our selfishness, greed, anger, malice, impatience and pride (to name a few) would be revealed for all to see. We all fall short; which is why we need Jesus in the first place.

So, Cassie is at rest; she is in heaven with God, healed of her addictions.  She is not in hell because of her addictions and crimes any more than she is in heaven because of her good acts.  For all of us, our sinful acts and attitudes far outnumber our "saintly" ones.  Cassie is living in heaven because Jesus took the punishment she (and we all) deserved and she accepted His free gift of eternal life.

On this, the first anniversary of her death, I say with confidence in God, who answered my prayers that Cassie is Resting in Peace.

Laugh and the World Laughs With You

One of my favorite quotes is from Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Earth laughs in flowers" from the poem Hamatreya.  The quote is taken out of context of the poem; but still, I like the imagery.  This got me to thinking of other ways in which the earth expresses itself.

If "earth laughs in flowers" then it rejoices with gleeful jubilation with sunshine.  It giggles with rain.  The earth howls during windstorms, obviously.  It roars with hurricanes, shrieks with tornadoes, and shouts with thunder.

Then there are days like today.  On these days, when it sleets and snows on APRIL 24 , earth guffaws... loudly...at us, not with us.

I think my brother and his wife, currently vacationing at Disneyworld, are guffawing along with earth.

A Christmas Far More GloriousThan Grand

For the first time in many years I put up a Christmas tree. Nothing fancy, just a humble (live) table top tree purchased at a local grocery store - originally $19.99 but marked down to $4.99. One strand of mini lights was more than enough. I woke a few ornaments from their hibernation in the dark dusty recesses of my attic.  The rest of the house was supplemented with a wreath on a door, a few holiday knick knacks here and there and some candles for additional ambiance. 

The gifts I received were just as simple – a shawl, a candle, handmade earrings (Barbling #1 custom-designed earrings), to name a few.  None were of great expense.  No diamonds or furs or trips to Europe; no big toys or electronics.  Just modest presents from people who love me – and who I love back.   

I don’t know why I chose to decorate this year.  There was no surge of holiday cheer in my heart.  This Christmas has been no better or worse than others.  In years when I decked the halls more extravagantly, I didn’t necessarily feel more of the Christmas spirit then, either.  I think at that time I was trying to manufacture glad tidings – “fake it ‘til you make it” – hoping to acquire some holiday cheer.  I was trying to keep up appearances; I didn’t want to be thought of as the sad lonely spinster -  Ebenezera Scrooge.

This Christmas Eve I attended a church service with friends.  It was informal – some reading of scripture and singing of carols.  Lots of singing!  Some of the hymns chosen were upbeat – “Hark the Herald” and the like.  Some were soft, ballads – the ever popular “Silent Night”.  Others were almost mournful and pleading – “Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel” and “I Wonder as I Wander”.  It wasn’t an emotional or inspiring affair; nor was it uninspiring.  It was enjoyable and it was…reverential.   

At times, during the singing I felt moved to stand in worship to my King.  I felt happy without being giddy.  No enthusiastic shouts came from my mouth and I didn’t feel compelled to buy a gigantic Christmas goose for the Cratchit family, a la Scrooge.  Though stirred emotionally, amazingly (for me) I didn’t tear up. 

What I felt was joy.  Not delight or bliss or ecstasy – those aren’t joy; not really.  They’re too circumstantial.  Those feelings are contingent on events and environmental conditions.  No, joy is the full knowledge that everything I will ever really need is provided for by my Creator because of what His Son, Jesus began on that first Christmas and finished on Easter, thirty three years later. 

I haven’t felt “joy” in a very long time and when I have, it’s been fleeting.  This was partly because I had wrong assumptions on what joy was and because my expectations of what would give me joy were overblown.  This year, I just wanted to mark the occasion of my Savior’s birth in some way. 

My simple Christmas decorations are not Martha Stewart-caliber.  No one will feature my home on their Pinterest boards.  My wreaths and tiny tree didn’t win any contests.  A line from the song “The Lord’s Bright Blessing” from the holiday cartoon classic “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” comes to mind.  The Cratchit family tells of their modest celebration singing: 

We’ll have the Lord’s bright blessing
And knowing we’re together
Knowing we’re together heart and hand

We’ll have the whitest Christmas
The very brightest Christmas
A Christmas far more glorious than grand 

My Christmas 2012 was not grand but it was Glorious – with a capital G.  The glorious part gave glory to God in the Highest.  Not because of anything I did – no impressive gestures of generosity.  Most definitely NOT because of some magnificent decorations or gourmet baking.  It was Glorious because for a time, sin and sorrow did not reign in me. He replaced it with His grand joy. 

This joy did not happen because I decorated a tree.  The tree was decorated because of the joy I felt.  It’s been a long time coming.  I pray it stays around awhile.

Bohemian Rhapsody

Yesterday, I got my first (and probably my last) tattoo (yes, it hurt).  It is a Celtic Motherhood Knot, a symbol of the unity of Mother/Child/Faith/Heritage displayed on the big toe of my left foot.

For a long time, I've wanted a tattoo but could never go through with it.  I couldn't justify the cost.  I thought it was sinful.  I worried that I would change my mind on where or what I wanted -a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist; before long, my body would be awash in tattoo ink.  And so I put off that dream, satisfying myself with temporary henna tattoos - a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist...

I have what I call my "bohemian" streak.  It's this part of me that wants to break free from conventional behavior; to satisfy the artistic side of my being; to be adventurous.  It's the part of me that paints my toenails purple and dyes my hair red and wants to bungee jump and sky-dive.  Getting my tattoo indulged this bohemian streak.

After my friend Adiel got a tattoo, I made plans for my own inking and she agreed to join me for moral support and courage.  The date was planned, I chose the design and for the next three weeks I waited excitedly.

The symbol I chose was for many reasons.  First, it's Celtic like much of my own Scotch/Irish and even German heritage.   Second, the Mother/child symbol is in memory of my own Mom, who I miss intensely.  Third, the Celtic Trinity symbol is intertwined within the mother/child hearts, reflecting my identity with Christ.

By the time Adiel picked me up for our adventure to Buddha's Tattoo Parlor, I understood my desire for a tattoo was more significant than some artistic whim.  A tattoo is a commitment.  It's permanent.  If my "bohemian" side is a simple streak, my desire for permanence and commitment is as wide as a six-lane highway.  I look at my tattoo as a "wedding ring" of sorts.  I look at it and know that I belong to someone.  I belong to the Celts.  To my mom.  To Jesus.

Where's The Snooze Alarm Button?

My biological clock is ticking loudly. I hear the tick-tock everywhere - at the grocery store when I see a mother pushing a cart with a child in the seat; at work where I see new parents taking there infant to it's first pediatrician's appointment.

It's natural - not because of cultural issues, not for hormonal reasons, not because of TV, and other media pressures. It goes further than that - back to creation. I was created (not just biologically, but put together and planned for childbirth). It was a command of God. And having been made in His Image it's only natural that I would want to have something in my image as well - a baby.

And sin ruined it all. It makes me angry that because of sin, I don't get what I want - what I was made for. Is this righteous anger?

A Brother's Love (as only a brother can express)

A few weeks ago, I was out to dinner with my family. As I approached the restaurant table, my sister-in-law commented on my recent weight loss, telling me I looked "really good". My brother commented, "I'm her brother. I can't say that. I can only say she doesn't look as bad as she used to." :p

Quote of the Day

The family seems to have two predominant functions: to provide warmth and love in time of need and to drive each other insane.

-- Donald G. Smith

Payday for Miss Barb

About 6-7 years ago, I was heading somewhere with the Barblings and their mom. We stopped for a quick dinner at the McDonald's drive-through, where Barbling #3 (age approx 3-4 years old) ordered her usual - a plain cheeseburger.

Unfortunately, McDonald's put pickles on the burger, which caused some turmoil. #3 asked her mother to remove the dreaded pickles from her burger, but Mom had to decline, as driving the van was a higher priority, at the time.

I told #3 I would help her in her time of need. As she handed the stricken patty to me, she said "Miss Barb, I'll pay you a penny to take off my pickles. A penny and a kiss."

It was the best paying job I've ever had!

Sarah Palin's Daughter

During Sarah Palin's speech last night the cameras prominently featured her family members. In one shot, her youngest daughter, Piper, was shown holding her baby brother, stroking his head. Suddenly she licked her hand and smoothed down his hair.

My mother had a coffee mug that said "I love you, Mom. But I'll never forgive you for cleaning my face by spitting on a Kleenex"

Piper has natural mothering instincts.

My Dad WAS Right

Tonight, when I got home from work, I opened the back door to let the dogs out. In the yard was a rabbit. Dora didn't notice, but Grace immediately went off chasing the bunny. However, she suddenly stopped to relieve herself. Which proves my father's age-old adage, "If the dog hadn't stopped to "produce skubalon", she would have caught the rabbit!

Adopted

I was reading an old journal entry where one of the Barblings had asked me if I was a friend or family. I replied that I was a friend since I wasn't a blood relative, when their mom came in the room and corrected me saying that Barbling #1 wasn't a blood relative either (she's adopted) and she's family.

It's no secret that I would love to have a child of my own but during a conversation with a friend I confided that I was also afraid that if I did have my own child that all the other children in my life would feel they'd been replaced, and I would never want them to think that. I couldn't love a Barbling, et al any more if they were my very own.

This is how God, my Father, views me. "For all who are being led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God. For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out,"Abba! Father!" The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God..." (Romans 8:14-16).

Some days, when I think of the children in my life I'm filled with such love my heart feels like it will explode. If anyone tried to do anything to hurt them I could easily become violently protective. I would run in to a burning building, jump in to a raging river, throw myself in front of a bullet for any and all of them.

Today I realized that my heavenly Father feels the same towards me. It was through Christ's death that I became a "blood" relative. I might be one of His billions of children, but He knows my name, remembers my birthday, etc. His heart fills to the point of explosion at the thought of me (!?!), and He threw Himself in to the line of fire for me.

...because family sticks together.