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.

The Battle Scarred Princess

There once was a princess on a journey to return to her home to be with her Father, the King.  All her brothers and sisters, princes and princesses in their own right were on the same journey, though they’d all been given different paths.  Their paths were fraught with danger and each had to fight many battles along the way but everyone was amply armed and provided for by their Father.  Their wise and wonderful King also made sure they gathered together one day each week for rest and renewal in each other’s company. 

This princess’ path, she travelled alone much of the time, with none of her brothers and sisters available for help.  It was frightening and very lonely but she tried to faithfully follow the path she’d been given. However, she tripped and fell many days.  Her path also forced her in to numerous battles where she sustained many bruises and hurts throughout the week.   By the time she met up with her family on their weekly R&R, she was weary and in great pain.  Her brothers and sisters were all happy to be together and shared stories of their adventures that week.  The princess listened and tried to rejoice with them and for them but she was so tired.  As her family danced and played around her, they often jostled and bumped in to her causing her great pain; bumping her bruises and opening wounds.  They did not intentionally hurt her, but It got so the princess could no longer leave her battle armor at the door, she had to wear it in to the place of sanctuary to keep from reinjuring herself.

The princess loved her family and deeply desired to be with them on these days of rest.  She attended them regularly because she knew it pleased and honored her beloved Father, and what she heard there helped her prepare for the battles in the coming week.  But these meetings were painful and carrying her armor seven days a week with no respite was exhausting her.  Her arms were weak having to hold up her shield and sword so much.  Her head hurt wearing the helmet every day.  And her feet were aching and weakening having to stand battle ready all the time, with little opportunity for rest.  As the day for the weekly family gatherings drew near, she would start to dread the meetings.  Her defenses would start to rise, her anxiety heightened, her resent at being alone to fend for herself grew.  The mornings of each  gathering day, she would prepare but anger and rage would build inside her because she was in such pain.  There was no escape from the suffering and she was afraid she would no longer be able to wield her armor for battle.  Then she’d be overcome by the enemy and would never get home to her Father. 

(I don’t know how to end this story.  I seek solutions but no one really has any.)

The Lottery

Dedicated to RJL (Barbling #2) who's lovely innocence inspired me.

Eight years ago, I went to a King Arthur Flour baking demonstration with my friend Brenda and her three daughters, who I lovingly refer to as my Barblings.  Upon registering, we all were given tickets for door prizes that were to be drawn at the end of the class.  Each of the Barblings was given her ticket to hold.  Barbling #2 clung to hers as if it were gold and asked me when the prizes would be given.  I told her she had to wait until the end.  She said ok and took her seat next to me. 

While her sisters colored and drew pictures, Barbling #2 sat attentively, tightly gripping her ticket between her thumb and forefinger, quietly reading off the numbers to herself and watching the clock.  Her childhood excitement pinged my heart and I said a quick prayer that God would fulfill this wish of hers to win a prize.

Periodically, she would turn to me and asked how much longer it would be until the drawings.  I checked the agenda and gave her a rough estimate of when I thought the raffle would begin.  She then turned back in her seat, still grasping her ticket, a look of anticipation on her face that only one so young and inexperienced in disappointment could display.

This happened a few times throughout the show.  While her sisters played and mom and I casually remarked on some newly learned dough fact, Barbling #2 sat there waiting quietly with anxious patience.

Finally!  The demonstration had ended and the time for the door prizes to be awarded arrived.  We all pulled out our tickets with some degree of wishful hope that we might win some trinket or maybe even the grand prize, a highly treasured King Arthur Flour cookbook.

Ticket #1 was drawn.  They read off the number and everyone checked their tickets.  And…Barbling #3 won!  Her prize was a baseball cap and a dough scraper.  All the audience members clapped and congratulated her on her good fortune.  Many even cooed over her cherubic six-year-old glee.  Then everyone’s attention returned to the remaining drawings.  More tickets were pulled, more numbers read off.  All the while, Barbling #2 silently checked her ticket, carefully listening as the numbers were read off.  She followed along on her ticket as each number was called; double checking, though by this time she had to have had the numbers memorized.

A few prizes later, Barbling #1’s number was called (she won a dough wand).  Mom and I looked at each other with surprise and happiness on our good luck.  Two of the kids had won!  Just as quickly, though, dismay registered on our faces as we realized, “Oh.  Two of the three kids had won.” While people were congratulating #1 on her prize I was quickly composing some consoling words that I could say to #2 when she was let down.  I’m willing to bet mom was as well.

After congratulating #1, #2 again turned forward in her seat, still clutching her ticket, that same look of wishfulness on her innocent face.

That face radiated such hope and excitement. There was a brightness that comes from childlike simplicity.  At seven, she didn’t have frown lines or wrinkles.  Furrows were not etched in her forehead from the plows of sadness.  She was beautiful, and her lovely innocence frightened me.  I was worried about how her mother would pick up the pieces when disillusionment crashed down on her.  I was scared for her, how she would handle the disappointment.  My heart ached for her naiveté and I wanted to cry then for the pain she was going to have to endure shortly.  She would be left out of the winner’s circle – the circle in which her sisters were welcomed in to that day.  I was powerless to protect her and I could not think of any words of comfort that would soothe her pain.  So I just sat there preparing for the tears that would flow.  Or at least I hoped there would be tears.  Silent disappointment would be worse.  Tears can be wiped away.  I didn’t have access to comfort her bruised heart and aching soul.

The time came for the grand prize to be drawn.  The excitement in the room could be felt.  The announcer slowly and clearly read each number on the ticket as audience members checked their tickets.  Barbling #2 followed along.  When the final number was read we saw that she had won!  The excitement she expressed was akin to that normally reserved for birthdays and Christmas.  She shook with excitement.  And so did I.  I remember feeling such joy for her and gratitude to God for answering that prayer.

I have a ticket to which I’ve been clinging for 51 years.  I grip the ticket so hard my fingers ache along with my heart. I was raised with the notion that the prize was pretty much guaranteed.  Well-meaning friends have told me for years to be patient, my time would come.  I’ve sat by as family and friends around me have had their numbers called.  I watched them march down the aisle to be awarded their prizes (some more than once) while I still wait.  Now as their children are starting to have their numbers called, it’s getting harder to  share their joy.  I wonder if maybe my ticket expired, maybe my part in the drawing ended and I don’t know it.  Still, I hang on to the ticket.  It’s worn, its numbers are faded; it’s tear-stained.  But I still have it.

I’ve thought of just tossing the ticket in the trash and getting on with my life.  Then I hear of someone in similar straits as me whose ticket has been called.  I hear one or two numbers called that happen to be on my ticket and I get my hopes up again.  There’s no expiration date on the ticket that I can see.  If I hang on to it just one more day, just one more drawing, then maybe my number will come in.  My heart is still beating, so the raffle is still active, isn’t it? 

I don’t know why I’ve had to wait so long when so many others have won, some more than once.  I’ve seen people who stole their prizes, who didn’t wait their turn for their number to be called.  Why were they able to “win” when I’ve had to wait?  Why was I even given a ticket in the first place if there was never any chance it would be redeemed?  Why do I have to be disappointed over and over again—what purpose does it serve?  I have no answer to these questions.

But…

The same God who bestowed that gift on Barbling #2 is the same one who gave me my ticket 51 years ago.  But He gave me another ticket as well; one whose reward is not determined by chance or some random sweepstakes.  This ticket is really an engraved invitation; its ink is the blood of Jesus.  Possession of this ticket grants me eternal life and entrance to God’s royal throne room.  But I’ve mishandled it and taken it for granted way too often.  Instead of clinging to it, I’ve tossed it in my purse or on my desk, forgetting it existed until I’m in some desperate straits.  Then I find myself tearing through the house on a frantic, anxious search for peace.  I see the invitation, wrinkled, curled, torn in spots.  But that doesn’t matter to God.  He still accepts my invitation and I’m given passage not only into the throne room, but also access to Him who sits at the throne.

Despite possession of this invitation, I still would like to be able to cash in this raffle ticket”.  In the event that number is never called, though, I know Jesus has a “prize package” awaiting me in heaven that more than makes up for not winning this earthly lottery.  It will satisfy the longings I feel.  It will heal the many hurts I’ve endured.  I need only wait with the same patience and faith that Barbling #2 exhibited eight years ago.

Love at First Sight

The only time in history when there truly was "love at first sight" was in Genesis, when God looked on His creation and saw that it was good.  All other instances were just "like" or "lust" at first sight.

A Lament of Loneliness and Broken Down Cars

God will restore, confirm, strengthen and establish me (I Peter 5:10) He WILL make up for all I've suffered here on earth.  But, oh how I wish He'd do it soon because life is to very hard here.

Please Don't Tell Me I'm Wrong

As I try to make sense of this life I have - that God has given me, I struggle.  I'm not an unintelligent person.  I'm also not a genius.  And I know God confounds the most genius of geniuses.  But I've always thought I should be able to make some sense of things, with God's help.  When I don't, I figure God's help is eluding me.

But today (at least for this moment) I think...

1. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for the furtherance of the Kingdom of God.
2. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for my good.
3. Items 1 and 2 are not mutually exclusive.  That is to say, when God is furthering His Kingdom, I'm not necessarily taking second place.  I'm not being pushed to the side for something or someone more important.  Somehow, I fit in to God's plan for His Kingdom.  Somehow, by His grace, I'm important to His plan.
4. The "I'm important" part is NOT an egotistical position.  I AM important, because God made that way through Jesus.  It's nothing I did.
5. I have no idea of how this all fits together.  I just pray it's biblical and that I can believe it two hours from now.

What's in a Name

Dear God,

You named me Barbara.  It means "stranger".  Looking back over the 50 years You have thus appointed to me, I have been a stranger.  Always on the fringe.  Never really included.  Never really connected.  I have to believe You have had a bigger reason for doing this.  Your word says you know the hairs on my head, you set out my steps before me, you love me as your child.  You have a plan for me - for my good, not harm.

When You did great things to people in the past, you changed their name - Abram to Abraham, Saul to Paul, etc.  Change my name.  Please.  Change me.

Some refer to times like this as being in the desert.  It only fits - the Israelites, Jesus - all experienced a desert, a dry time.  I different.  If the wet kleenex in my trash are any indication, I'm far from dehydrated.  I'm a flood of tears and emotion. 

Your word is true, I know that.  It is because of this that over 30 years ago I was able to commit my life to You.  But sometimes, as I recite these promises, they don't ring true.  They sound like just words.  I cling to the life preserver of Your Word and I stay afloat, but I'm still afraid as the waves of loneliness crash over me.  I'm looking for the rescue plane to fly overhead.

Honesty and Sincerity

In addition to this blog, I’ve begun submitting some of my writings to a writer’s blog, The Write Practice.  The comment that I regularly receive on my writing is that it is honest and sincere.  I am complimented when I hear this, as that is my goal when I write – to be truthful and open.

My proclivity towards sincerity has been with me since birth.  Like the little girl with the curl on her forehead – when I’m good I’m very, very good and when I’m bad, I’m horrid.    I’ve been sincerely kind and sincerely mean; I’ve been sincerely happy and sincerely sad.  But always sincere.

I don’t know if this quality came from nature or nurture; I just know it’s always been there.  I consider this one of my better qualities, but it’s also opened me up to a great many hurts.  Like an open book, I’ve been exposed to rough handling, coffee stains, rips and scribbles in my margins.  But I’ve also experienced the loving touch of someone turning my pages to read my next paragraphs.

Honesty is another story.  Though I’d like to believe my honesty comes from some deep morality within me, really (honestly???) it’s because I’m such a lousy liar.  I always have been.  No poker face here.  You never want to tell me about someone’s surprise party.  I’m able to keep a secret…unless confronted by a direct question, at which point my “Who me?  I know nothing.” expression reveals everything.

I believe this quality came from God, more for my protection than as a reward.  This was His way of “leading me not in to temptation”.  Since I know I won’t succeed in lying, it’s not worth the effort.

In my writing, I try to be honest and sincere in order to help people.  I spent much of my life feeling strange, the only one like me.  Through much reading, listening and observing I’ve discovered I’m not all that different.  The rest of humanity is just as screwed up as me.  It’s just that I’m more open about it.

Certainly, many say they’re confused and unsure of things, but I don’t get the sense they believe it. They say the words, but they don’t complete the thought.  They don’t reveal the honest, down and dirty examples.  They’re not being sincere.

In these instances, I don’t think people are trying to deceive, as much as they’re trying to protect themselves.  They want to keep their book in pristine condition, revealing only the dust jacket version of their story.  It looks good on the bookshelf, but it’s not really of any use.

I want to be of use to people.  I want everything I’ve seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched to be of some use – the sweet and the sour, the melodic and the discordant.  I want my life to have some purpose beyond just myself.  I want to be an opened and read book from which people learn and are entertained.  The only way I know how to do this is by being honest and sincere. 

Like Siamese Twins

"Our prayer must not be self-centered.  It must arise not only because we feel our own need as a burden we must lay upon God, but also because we are so bound up in love for our fellow men that we feel their need as acutely as our own.  To make intercession for men is the most powerful and practical way in which we can express our love for them."

  -John Calvin

I Wonder...

Is it possible to be happy for someone, while at the same time feel sorry for yourself?

A Psalm for Menopause

Why is it called menoPAUSE?
It's not a Pause
but a click on the Stop button,
never to be restarted again.  Ever.
For eternity.

When I was thirteen, You pushed the Start button
and the inward parts You formed ran like clockwork.
They waited for the day when they would be put to use.
Now, they are slowing down, soon to grind to a halt.

Ten years ago I was counseled by doctors
to press the Delete button.
I didn't.  I couldn't.
I wonder now if I should have.
Would it have made things easier now?

A vacant womb,
never used.
Isn't this like hiding one's light under a bushel?
But You're the one hiding the light.
It's You who's in charge of this Dimmer switch.

You knit this body of mine
and have let me to sit untouched.
Batteries left inside, unused
have started to leak acid onto my heart.
The pain seems unbearable.

The Volume button keeps being pushed..
Louder and louder are the pleas from my soul.
Let me be used!  Fix me!
Make me whole, as I'm supposed to be;
as I see so many other women around me!

The pain seems unbearable,
but it isn't.
You are faithful and do not let me be tempted
beyond my ability to withstand.
You provide the way of escape that I may endure.

For those who love You
all things work together for good
for those who are called
according to Your purpose.
And I have been called.  Chosen, in fact.

This appliance that is me may be gathering dust here,
but in heaven, it's true intent will be accomplished.
You will press the Restart button
and my heart's deepest desires will be fulfilled
never to be Paused or Stopped.
Ever.  For eternity.

The Mood I'm In Today

Here And Heaven

With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we
are building a shed
Between here and heaven between the wait and the
wedding for as long as we both shall be dead
to the world beyond the boys and the girls trying
to keep us calm
We can practice our lines 'til we're deaf and blind
to ourselves to each other where it's
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it's warm not hot have we all forgotten that
we're getting old
 
With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow
we are staking our claim
On ground so fertile we forget who we've hurt along
the way and reach out for a strange hand
to hold someone strong but not bold enough to
tear down the wall
'Cause we're not lost enough to find the stars aren't
crossed why align them why fall hard
not soft into
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it's warm not hot have we all forgotten that
we're getting old

-Chris Thile

Obituary

Today, my dream died. It was a long and painful death. It has taken years and the dream lived well past it’s prime. By the end it was just a shadow of the dream it was when I was a little girl and it was sapping me of my strength and my joy. Preserving it robbed me of so much emotional energy and adversely affected my other relationships.  It had turned ugly, rotted and had actually infected and was killing ME as well.

When my mom died, when friends have died, when my dog died, I knew they’d gone to a better place; someplace/someone better was waiting for them in heaven (yes, even my dog.  One as wise as John Piper agrees). I knew they were with God. What about dead dreams? Where do they go? What happens to them? I have to believe my dream will be fulfilled by my Father – at least the essence of it, the need in me it was meant to satisfy. But it’s hard. There is an emptiness inside me right now.

When people die there is a grieving period. What about when dreams die? Am I allowed to grieve for a bit?  How is one to mourn a dead dream?

Tieing One On: The Real Consequences

While dressing for work today, I was inspired by a fashion magazine to use an old, seldom worn scarf as a belt.  A proven scientific fact...there is a direct correlation between the tightness of the knot tied to the urgency one has to go to the bathroom.

The Insight of Emily Dickinson

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering.

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

  -Emily Dickinson

(Unedited) Writing Project #3

She ran in to Wal-Mart to pick up a printer cartridge, but as often happened, she found herself taking the circuitous route to the needed aisle, winding her way through the Baby department. Today she looked at car seats and swings and toys. Checking the labels for the ages, 0-3months, 3 -6 months, 6+months. She imagined what toys she would pick out for her baby – today it was a son she was imagining, so her fantasy purchases were either neutral or boy colors and characters – Winnie the Pooh, trucks, tractors.

Not too long ago, people watching her might think the purchases were for her own child, but now, 4 days shy of her 50th birthday, people would think they were for her grandchild. It was cottonwood season; the white fluffy things were all through the atmosphere, so if anyone caught her with teary eyes, she would make some offhand remark about allergies.

The emotional pain she felt took on a physical sensation, such that she found her hand unconsciously rising up to her heart. Anyone watching her might thing she was having a heart attack. What excuse would she make up to cover that?

Really, she was having a heart attack of sorts. Just not one that medicine could treat. Her heart was under emotional attack and she had no defense. There was no weapon she knew to wield against these assailants. She was a helpless victim.

She’d read articles about how many infertile women cried when their periods started because once again they were not pregnant. Every 28 days, she found herself anxiously looking for traces of her cycle’s beginning; evidence that she was still able to conceive, if any man would ever find her desirable enough for a relationship.

Afraid she’d run in to someone she knew, she found her way to the printer supplies and bought the required cartridge and proceeded to the checkout. By the time she left the store and got in her car, the tears had welled up. Fortunately, it was dark and so no one would see her crying. She wouldn’t have to use the allergy lie and could save it for another day.

Friday Funnies

1.  When I was in high school, I worked at church bingo pushing the refreshment cart through the aisles.  The ladies referred to me as "pop girl".  Yesterday, at the nursing home where I work, I was pushing a cart filled with incontinence products when a resident referred to me as the "Attends Lady".  So, is this a promotion or a demotion????

2.  While distributing the aforementioned incontinence products, the following conversation took place:

• Resident:  "How long 'til you retire?"
• Me:  "About 20 years."
• Resident:  "Holy sh*t!"
• Me:  "That's what I say to myself every morning."

Sitting on Abba's Lap

"Fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge" so says Solomon in Prov 1; fear being respect and humility for God's ultimate authority and great power.  I understand this.  But it wasn't until I stopped living in fear of Him and started seeing Him as Abba/Father/Daddy that I started becoming comfortable in His presence (BTW, this is still a work in progress).

Yes, He is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords and I approach Him as I might the Queen of England - head bowed, small, shy curtsy - but sometimes I just want to run up to Him, climb in to His lap, and be shielded in His strong, giant arms.  Where is the fear of the Lord in that?

Thoughts on Thinking

"I think; therefore, I am" said DesCartes.

So, if one thinks a lot, does that make him alot?  Not really.

I think a lot.  I have a lot of alone time with which to think.  I think too much.  And I find out I am not much; not much of anything, really.

I think about all I am, all I've accomplished, all I need to accomplish, all I want to accomplish and I find...not much of anything, really.

Solomon said, "vanity, vanity, all is vanity.  He was more on the money.

(Unedited) Writing Project #2

Outside of her faith, there was nothing she could identify that was right. Not her job, not her home, not her finances. Certainly not her social life or relationships – she had none of either. She merely subsisted. Her goal each day was to survive until the next, but it was getting increasingly difficult to do so.

The times at home alone were the hardest. Despite her dissatisfaction with her job, at least it filled her time for 8 hours each day. But when alone, she faced the blank sheet of paper that was her life and filled it with scratches and scribbles of unorganized and unconnected thoughts. Like graffiti on a wall, her mind and heart were marred with anger and discontent and self-pity. She tried to distract herself with exercise, eating, reading and daydreams but after what seemed like most of her 50 years, these old coping mechanisms were no longer working. They were overwhelmed by the thoughts of sadness, regret and resentment. Like a tsunami of emotions, they tossed her about, one thought crashing into another, slamming her in to walls of memories and disappointments. She was drowning and no one about her seemed to notice or maybe they just had more important things with which to be concerned.

Those she loved and who loved her were involved in their own lives, with their own struggles. No one had the time to rescue her from the ocean of grief from which she was trying to escape. They were too busy trying to keep themselves and their families afloat until they found solid ground themselves. And there was her greatest fear – if she was drowning and their child or spouse were drowning who would they save? If she and their child or spouse were in a burning building, who would they save? Their loved one, obviously. And she was not the loved one – not to anyone she knew.

She’d had great parents. Sure they’d made mistakes, but all parents do. She’d always known they loved her and her sibling but they’d expended so much effort trying to parcel out there love to each of their children in equal portion that she never knew what it was like to be greatly and uniquely loved. Faced with all their children drowning at once and unable to save them all, her parents would probably let them all drown because they could not bear the unrescued ones thinking they’d been loved less.

But it was easy to focus on what was not going right - there were so many items from which to pick.  Her faith was right.  How could faith in Jesus be wrong?  It just wasn't very strong and she was afraid it wouldn't bear her weight much longer.  Somehow, she'd lose her grip and tumble into the dark abyss.

Love in Small Letters

I have many people who love me. But there is no one who LOVES me - or even Loves me. I know there are many who have few, if any that love them. And I know comparisons are prideful, egotistical, joy-killers. But even without comparing my lot in life, the desire for LOVE doesn't go away. When I go to church or women's group or (fill in the blank) I see people who are LOVED, hear sermons on LOVE, but I don't ever experience it personally.

Yes, I have Jesus' LOVE. But so do all the believers around me. And they still have the LOVE/Love of other human beings.

The Word says I'm supposed to be content in all circumstances, but I confess I'm not. It's like being forced to eat something I don't like. "Barb, eat your Brussels sprouts. There are starving children in Bangladesh." I might eat the Brussels sprouts, but I still don't like them. Again, when I'm at church, etc it's like sitting down at a meal to a plate of those damned Brussels sprouts while everyone around me is eating steak. Then I'm criticized for not enjoying my meal.
love lets me come to the meal with my despised Brussels sprouts.
Love would eat one or two sprouts with me. We'd make faces as we chewed, and encourage each other while we struggled to swallow.  We might even laugh about it. Brussels sprouts would still taste just as bad, but their horrible flavor and sulfurous odor would be more tolerable because of the companionship of a fellow sufferer.  A burden shared is half a burden...
LOVE would skip their steak and fill their plate with sprouts and sit down with me. Jesus did this when He humbled Himself to become a human being. He forsook all the honor, power and privilege of His Godliness and took on the manly being.  Heck, Jesus took my Brussels sprouts and gave me His steak.

I have His LOVE. But aren't we supposed to be like Jesus?  Aren't we supposed to love/LOVE/Love like Jesus? Where is my human LOVE? love times 100 never equals one LOVE. I'd like just one LOVE.

(Unedited) Writing Project #1

The room was a big square, walled with old-fashioned yellowed wallpaper that was peeling in spots. The tears in the wallpaper revealed even more old-fashioned Pepto-Bismol pink paint that was chipping and peeling even more. The only two windows were on the west wall which looked out on the more scenic side of the house at the tree-filled park across the street. Unfortunately, there was also a streetlight there also, which poured its light in to the house each night, necessitating window-blackening shades which blocked the only pretty thing about the room.

The floors were bare, unless you counted the gobs of dog hair that lined the baseboards. Last summer, she’d torn out the old maroon-colored wool carpeting. At one time it might have been fashionable, but 50 years of dust and UV rays had rendered it to dry-rotted shreds and threads. The floors underneath were pine wood, hardly durable enough to withstand her own minimal wear and tear, let alone that of two dogs dragging their paws over it. It was now quite scratched up. As luck would have it, at the side of the bed on which she raised each morning (and more than a few afternoons, when the naps of depression took over) there was a popped nail that she repeatedly stepped on and swore at. The nail had popped at such an angle that it was impossible to fully pound back in to the boards. She supposed she could buy a throw rug and place that over the nail, thus protecting the soles of her feet, but that would involve choosing a color and pattern and committing to some decorating style and she didn’t have that kind of energy in her.

The room seemed to mirror her own self – lonely, messy, beat-up, undecorated, worn …old. It had potential, but that potential needed someone with greater talent than she had to bring it about.

Double Take

One Sunday, Barblings #1 & 2 were walking down the aisle and I was taken by how much they look alike.  Aged 17 & 14, there is a bit of an age and maturity gap.  But the manner in which they presented themselves at that moment, they could have been twins.  Both are tall, lithesome teenagers.  Both have medium brown hair cut to similar length and style.  On that day, both bore winsome smiles and a graceful and peaceful demeanor.  Only one issue - B#1 shares not an iota of DNA with B#2.  B#1 is adopted.

So how can that be?  How can they look alike?  It's not nature, so it must be nurture.  Raised by the same parents, living in the same house, sharing a bathroom, the very presence of each other over 14 years has given them some likeness.

As a Christian, the Word says I'm adopted, too.  Have I spent enought time with my Lord to take on some resemblance to Him?  Have I shared myself, given my entire self, MY ways, MY desires over to Him?  My current mood would shout the answer "NO".  But there is hope.

When I feel so unlike Him, when I feel so far from Him, I recall the verses from Lamentations "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end.  They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness." and I cling to this promise.  Every morning is a new day.  And His morning doesn't begin at
5:30am, like mine so I'm safe while I sleep.  No matter how much self-pity I display throughout the day, no matter what hateful thoughts I might have.  No matter what un-Christ-like qualities I might have, His mercy is renewed each day ant I'm able to start each day with a clean slate, the ugliness wiped from my countenance.  I am given another day to grow to look more like Him.

TGIF???

Like any working American, I look forward to Fridays. I look forward to not working Saturday and Sunday and I’m filled with the hope of all the things that I will accomplish over the next 48 hours. And then reality strikes.

Weekends really are the worst for me. They are blatant reminders of the stark loneliness that is my life. My phone does not ring. Like Charlie Brown I wait expectantly for the mailman, but there is no “Valentine”, no personal correspondence from friend or lover. My email is impersonal; my Facebook “friends” only request Farmville or Café World gifts.

I need the weekends to recharge for the work week, certainly. I need the weekends if for nothing else to get my laundry done. But I hate them at the same time. The silence and isolation attack and pummel me. They grind my heart and hope in to dust. I bleed heartache and misery. But there is no emergency room available to treat my sadness; no police force to defend me against the assault. And so I suffer the violence until Monday morning.
 
This sounds tremendously unfaithful, and it is.  It's downright sinful, I confess.  I repent...every Sunday night.  And I successfully avoid this particular sin...until Saturday morning, when the cycle starts all over again. 

Taming of the Shrew

My pastor recently preached a sermon on Genesis 1 titled “God’s Calling”. In it, he mentioned that everyone’s calling is to subdue creation and have dominion, that is control it and turn it into something of benefit.. My limited brain immediately brought to mind the example of musicians taking jumbles of notes and making beautiful music and artists taking color and line and making picturesque, museum-quality artwork. Later, when my friend and I were out running, I jokingly said we were subduing the creation that was our bodies and making fit beings out of them. A few steps and labored breaths later, I realized my joke was true (some of my most profound statements often start off as joke). It made me start thinking of other ways I could subdue creation and make something beneficial.

One of the problems with being single is not having someone readily available to bounce off ideas. I have so many of them they overwhelm me. I drown in my imagination, my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions. They wind up jumbled into a giant knot that weighs me down, ties me up and restrains me where I’m unable to move. Kind of like a “hoarder” only it’s my spirit that’s trapped inside my mind. My brain is like a cluttered, bulging file cabinet that lacks order. Hundreds, maybe thousands of stray notes have been stuffed in there with no order, causing me distress and confusion.

Perhaps writing more would give me an outlet, a manner by which I could subdue the thousands of thoughts that crowd my mind and maybe uncover something beautiful. Subduing my thought-life may bring about something honorable to God. At the very least, my mind would be decluttered and cleaned up and maybe not weigh me down with the junk of sad and desperate thoughts. Maybe something lovely might be uncovered, like a buried treasure.

My Hope Chest

For the past 30 years I've sat through hundreds, maybe thousands of hours worth of sermons, Bible Studies, book discussions and conversations on marriage and parenthood.  Though I had no need for the information at the time, no practical application, I absorbed that information for the time when I would need it.  For the time when I would be married and have children.  I gently placed each and every tidbit in my heart like a girl filling her hope chest.

At times, I would open up the chest and look over all that I had, imagining the days when I would put all that great advice to use.  I would be well supplied when I started up my new life with my spouse.  I would hit the ground running when parenthood happened.

In 16 days I turn 50 years old and all the items in my hope chest have sat unused and they never will be.  They've gathered dust, rusted, rotted.  I wonder what I could have done with all that time I spent sitting through those sermons, etc.  I wonder how much money I could have saved had I not spent it on those books.  I feel as though all those people who told me that a time would come when I would be able to put that info to good use lied to me.  I was tricked, deluded, used.

If I had a real hope chest filled with towels, sheets, dishes and other household goods I could donate them to charity, toss them in the garbage...or burn them.  How do I get rid of all this unusable advice that is stored in my mind and heart?  There's no way to get rid of it all.  Every tiny morsel taunts me.  It all weighs me down; my heart is heavy and burdened.  How can I divest myself of all this clutter?

A Question

If I believe God is sovereign (and I do), why do I wear a seat belt and get a flu vaccine?  I'm correct on both sides of this equation, but I can't articulate the reasons why.

A Jackson Pollock Painting

I'm not a fan of Jackson Pollock's art.  It's way too out there for me.  But I was thinking about myself, my personality, my likes/dislikes, my history, what I read, what I listen to, what I think about.  And I realized, I am a Jackson Pollock painting.  I'm a mishmash of colors thrown together, with no discernible rhyme or reason.  A drop of green here, a streak of blue there, dabbles of pink and red and purple and white.

I like jazz music, rock music, bluegrass, Celtic, some country.  I own some bagpipe cd's, for crying out loud.

I read murder mysteries, urban noir, biographies, history, current events, contemporary thought, health and wellness.  I read newspapers, books, magazines, blogs, cereal boxes and nutritional labels.

I dress conservatively, casually, modern, old-fashioned.  I'm just as at home in jeans and sweatshirts as I am in business suits, as I am in khakis and blazers.  I'm LL Bean, Evan Picone, WalMart, and Salvation Army Thrift Store.

My home is decorated in Traditional, Country, Cottage, Mission, Victorian, Romance, Contemporary.

I have an educated slang casual city country vocabulary.

I drink wine, Diet Coke, tap water, spring water, flavored water, black tea, white tea, green tea, herb tea, iced tea, Long Island Iced Tea and the occasional cappuccino.  That's really as far as I've delved in to the coffee world.

I like a clean house; I like a messy house.

I like to ride my bike, walk, hike; I am a couch potato.

I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted - sometimes all at the same time.

Many biographers and art historians speculate that Pollock suffered bipolar disease, which would explain the mania exhibited in his art.  Some might look at the canvas that is my life and wonder about the Artist that created me, as well. 

No one understands what was going through Pollock's mind as he dripped and tossed paint on canvas.  No one knows what fueled the thoughts and feelings he was trying to display, what emotions he was trying to free from deep within his soul.

I don't really understand what the Artist who created me was/is trying to accomplish.  His Word, His Autobiography says we all were fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps 139:14) in His image (Gen 1:27).  However, His art is not from bipolar disease.  He is not manic.  God is quite deliberate in how He proceeds.

One need only look at the history of creation in Genesis to see how carefully He made the earth and all that is within it.  For six straight days, He created a new item, one thing leading to another.  There was nothing random about it.  He separated land and water before He made plants.  He created plants before He created the animals that would eventually feed on those plants. 

As I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted (sometimes all at the same time), contemplating the "why's?" of my life, I have to step back and see the Artist at work, trusting there is a masterpiece being made that is still in process.  He's dripping points of sad blue on to streaks of boring beige next to lines of hot red through pools of peaceful yellow and green, with some splashes of fun pink and purple tossed in for humor and good measure.

There will be a day when the canvas that is me will be in His  heavenly gallery.  Jesus and I will be viewing the completed  work and I'll understand why that big black drip fell on to that fuschia experience and that it hadn't ruined but enhanced my life.  I need to have faith that the omniscient, omnipotent Artist will complete the good work He began in me (Phil 1:6).  Until that time, I need to watch the Artist wield His brushes, trusting that He has complete and total control.  There is nothing random about His paintings.

A Rose By Any Other Name

I've seen where many people seem to resemble their name.  In most cases, these people were named at birth before their personalities had emerged, so it serves to reason that God knew who or what they would become and informed theparents of the proper name before their child came in to being.

Look at Jacob (Supplanter/Trickster) who took his brother's inheritance.  Saul (Responder) who responded to God's call and became Paul (Humble).  John the Baptist (God is gracious).  And then, of course, there's Jesus (God Rescues).

My name is Barbara; it's Greek for Stranger, Foreigner.  Maybe it was set from birth that I would be out of place, lonely.  I don't want to be a stranger anymore.  I'm tired of it.  I want Him to change my name like He did for Jacob who became Israel (God Wrestler).

But to what will He change it?  And when?

Jigsaw Puzzle

Each life is like a jigsaw puzzle. Every experience is a piece in that puzzle and we spend our lives matching and piecing those parts together to form the whole of our lives here on earth. In heaven, we get to look at that completed puzzle and understand how all the pieces, all the experiences – good and bad, fit together and appreciate the beauty of the finished product.

In the meantime, however, we have to live through the completion process – twisting and turning the various parts, trying to match them up, endeavoring to make sense of it all. As we get older, bigger chunks form. Or at least, one would think they should or would. But that hasn’t been the case with me.

I have so many individual pieces still unmatched. Despite incredible efforts and prayers I struggle to put these pieces together. After almost fifty years, two or three pieces might have come together, but still there is no discernible image forming. I just have lots of small, seemingly pointless chunks sitting on the table, waiting to be assembled and identified, their purpose known.

I wait.  Sometimes patiently.  More often, not.  But still, I wait.  I won't abandon the puzzle, but I surely wish it would come together soon.

Decision Making Questions

What criteria do You use to determine which prayers You'll answer, and which ones You'll refuse?
Why do You answer my quick requests to find my lost car keys, but deny my desperate pleas for bigger things?
Are You looking for certain words, certain arguments, certain actions?
What am I doing wrong?

Arthritis of the Heart

I suffer from the chronic illness called loneliness.

Like arthritis, I wake some days symptom-free.  Most days, however, it's slow going; but eventually, once I get moving, the aches and pains subside.

But some days, the pain is downright debilitating.  Every movement, every word, every experience is a stabbing reminder of my alone-ness.  The pain is unbearable, making me wish for a quick and easy end.

There is no cure.  There are no emotional anti-inflmatories to take.  I just have to ride out the waves of pain.  But I anxiously, impatiently and hopefully wait for heaven, where there will be no more pain, no more tears, no more suffering.

Binded by the Light

O to grace how great a debtor


Daily I'm constrained to be!

Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here's my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above.

Intelligent Life in the Kennel

I awake at 2 am needing to go to the bathroom. The dogs are in a deep sleep around me, evidenced by their loud snoring. I gently extricate myself from the sheets, blankets and dogs, so as not to disturb them. I ease myself up from the mattress, letting sleeping dogs lie. Tiptoeing across the floor, I listen carefully verifying that they remain in their sweet canine slumber uninterrupted.  I continue about my business. I’m gone no more than two minutes, tops. When I return, the dogs, still snoring, have soundlessly moved in to MY recently vacated spot on the bed.

How do they do that?

The Electric Slide

I unplug my curling iron and toaster as fire safety precautions.

I unplug my cell phone charger for economic and environmental reasons, to eliminate "phantom power".

I keep my blender and stand mixer unplugged because I have a fear that they'll turn themselves on in the middle of the night.

I've been forever damaged by the horror films of my youth.

The Power of Powerlessness

When I was employed, Sundays were the hardest day of the week for me. It was the day when I was most alone, left to my own thoughts. It was the day when my feelings about those thoughts overwhelmed me and my emotions would rage out of control.

Now that I'm unemployed, virtually every day is Sunday, to this regard. Though I try to keep busy, there is still too much down time and my disatisfaction with my life, and my thoughts of failures past and present take over.

Today, on my way to church I was mulling over all my shortcomings, all my mistakes, all my sins and I was overcome by my powerlessness. I can never change the past. I can never make up for bad decisions I made throughout my 49 years. I will never be able to catch up to where I should be. And then God (gently) flicked me on the head (He does that to me sometimes) and said "AHA!" and I said in my most quiet, mouse-like voice "oh" (I do this with Him alot).

I AM powerless. My anguish comes when I think I actually have power. But I was created and adopted by God Almighty, who is NOT powerless. Not only is he NOT powerless, He IS most powerFUL. He is the only one able to actually keep the promises He makes and because of this, I can trust and truly hope in Him.

His promises weren't quitely communicated, either. He put them out there in His Word, for all the world to see and hear. He keeps His word; He doesn't have to worry about someone pointing out some flawed thinking or failure on His part. This is the one, true and perfect God here; not some fly-by-night philospher hawking self-help DVDs on TV.

A few verses come to mind:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil,to give you a future and a hope." Jeremiah 29:11

"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights." James 1:17

"For the Lord disciplines the one he loves,and chastises every son whom he receives." Hebrews 12:6

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2Cor 12:9-10

All I need to do is remember all this tomorrow morning, when faced with the blank page that is my day.

Consider the Lilies of the Field

"And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."(Matthew 6:28-29 ESV)

Over my 40+ years I've heard or read this verse hundreds of times. Yet, since I've been hanging out with Seedling #1 it's taken on new meaning. Now, when I think about "lilies of the field" I picture Seedling #1 running, dancing, playing...a big smile on her face; her curls bouncing, eyes flashing. Add in to the equation child-like faith and I've got the perfect picture of how life should be for believers...not a care in the world, with total trust in their Father. Now, when I hear this verse, I always smile. I feel a certain warmth in my soul when this picture enters my mind.

When I was her age and younger, I'm sure I felt this way, but I don't really remember those carefree days. I long for heaven when those days return and I get to live them out for eternity - along with Seedling #1 and all the others.

Question of the Day

Why do I believe the words of discouragement that I tell myself more readily than the words of encouragement? Why do the encouraging words sound so thin, so patronizing, so juvenile?

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words?

It's been said a picture is worth a thousand words, but pictures of me never match the thousand words that I think they should. Pictures of me never seem to portray what I'm thinking or feeling at the time. Pictures of me are never reflect how pretty, or how ugly, or how thin, or how fat I felt at the time the button was pushed. So I guess, like garage sale items, pics of me are worth a lot less than they were when originally procured.

Thoughts on Heaven

2002/2003 was a difficult time for me. The church I attended went through some terrible times and I felt it necessary to leave. My employer of 21 years closed. I had to have my dog put down. I lost much of what I treasured, what gave me purpose in the space of 9 months and I was devastated.

I have since been attending a great church where I have grown spiritually. Though currently unemployed, I had 2 jobs in this time frame, neither of which was as fulfilling as my previous one, but they provided a salary and I didn't lack for anything. I have two dogs (and many visiting ones) that I love. None of the originals have been "replaced"; they never could. There was only one Metro, one Evangelical Free Church, one Coach for that time for the person I was at that time. But...

God has promised that the losses I've experienced are not for nothing and He will replace them with something so much better - in heaven. In heaven I will have pets (yes, plural). I don't know if they will be the pets I had here on earth (Coach, Dusty, Priscilla, Grace, Dora, Lucy...) or if they will be new ones. I'd like the latter, but I'll trust God's judgement. I'll have a job, though not as a hospital purchasing agent. There will be no need for hospitals in heaven! And Best of all, there will be only one church of one mind and spirit; a church that will never have infighting, theological differences or doctrinal debates. This church will worship perfectly the one true Perfect God.

Until then, I bide my time, trusting God with the current and future circumstances of my remaining days on earth.

Tending the Garden(ers)

It's no secret that there are a lot of children in my life, though none of them belong to me. I often blog about the Barblings. As explained in a previous post, they are my best friend's daughters. I refer to them as Barblings because it's easier than typing a lengthy explanation of who they are each time. In addition, understanding the possible dangers associated with revealing names (especially those of children) on the internet, I choose to respect their privacy and use a pseudonym.

Now, during my unemployed state, I've been spending more time with a friend/neighbor/sister in Christ and her four children. They've given me some fodder for possible posts, but I needed a name for them. Today the thought struck me - Seedlings. Those of you who know me well and travel in the same circle should understand the name. If you don't, let me know and maybe I'll explain it to you.

Why I'm Single?

I appreciate a hot bath more when I'm cold to the bone. I appreciate a cool shower more when I'm dirty, hot and sweaty from working in the yard. Maybe I'm experiencing the loneliness of being single in order to more greatly appreciate the intimacy with God when I get to heaven????

Apathy

life's autumn days

filling time with "to do" list

waiting for the end

Blessed Be the Tie that Binds

Dedicated to the Kriebel Family

Blessed be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love.

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

-John Fawcett

This hymn was on my mind during a recent visit with my friend Emily. We hadn't seen each other in over 10 years, keeping in touch via informal emails, Christmas letters (hers, not mine. I've never written one), and Facebook. But our meeting just picked up where we'd left off. Our conversations were not just filled with anecdotes and current events, but with some intimate revelations, thoughts and spiritual insights. It was such a blessing seeing our Lord at work...in each other's lives and in our relationship.

When I first got to her house, I met her son, Joe (11) who chatted a bit and played piano for me. Later, while she and I sat at the dining room table catching up, her son, David (15?) played guitar while daughter, Christie (16?) sang. Then husband, Wayne (age not revealed) joined the concert. Later, I met James (12/13?) and Will (~22?). Jon (20/21?) and Katie (19) were unavailable. Despite the time lag of our last visit, there was no awkwardness or shyness. And her family welcomed me and went about there home life quite naturally, as if strangers visit and sleep on their couch all the time. I felt at home in a place I'd never been.

I'd refer to Em as a college friend, but during our visit I realized we'd never attended college together. Emily had transferred to PSU's Main Campus by the time I was at Behrend. It was through mutual friends in the Behrend College Christian Association that we met at a fall weekend retreat. Then, those mutual friends might refer to Em or me in conversations. So it just seemed like we'd always been friends all along.

When she graduated, Emily moved to Erie for about 6 months. We hung out a bit during that time. Then I visited her when she moved to North Carolina. I went to her wedding in Virginia and visited she and her husband a time or two again. But thinking back, our real connection, the tie that binds us is Jesus. It's He that allowed us to pick up our conversation as if no time had elapsed. It's He that allowed us to meet again without stumbling and stammering, having to reintroduce ourselves, deciding on how much we could trust each other or how personal our conversation could be.

Heaven will be like this. I will meet people like Rahab, Sarah Edwards and Corrie Ten Boom and not feel inadequate. I will sit down and drink tea with CS Lewis and not be afraid of saying something stupid. Of course, I'll say something stupid but we'll both have a great laugh and he'll tell me about all the stupid things he said, as well.

Thank you, Kriebels for that taste of heaven here on earth.

Let Everything That Has Breath Praise the LORD

"Let everything that has breath praise the LORD!"

Ps 150:6

As I was reading this the other day, I thought about those things that have breath. My dogs, plants, even the creek across the street from my home. All have "breath". That is, they all have some sort of oxygen exchange. How do they praise the LORD?

They praise the LORD just by doing that for which they were created. When Grace and Dora bark at the mailman or nap on the couch, they are praising the LORD. When the trees bud, flower, drop their leaves and even when they lay dormant, they are praising the LORD. Four Mile Creek praises the LORD as it runs over the rocks and stones, traveling to Lake Erie.

None of these earn a salary. They don't review day planners trying to eke out every last productive moment in their schedule (although Dora might chew a day planner if the opportunity presents itself). Yet, on a regular basis, they accomplish just what is expected by God.

How many Franklin Planner owners can claim this?

Spring Has Sprung

The calendar may show it's still winter, but according to my dogs, spring has sprung. This is evident by the constant twitching of their noses, taking in all the new scents freed from their icebergs.

Grace & Dora's noses seem to be acting as light switches for their eyes, which brighten with every flutter of their nostrils. The lights are powered by the swishing of their tales, like the cranks on old automobiles.

Canine senses are much more finely tuned than mine, but watching their reactions gives me an appreciation and excitement for God's creation, though I cannot see, hear or smell what they do. Sharing our spiritual experiences- trials as well as triumphs-is like this. One may not understand what I'm feeling, but they can see that God is working and they can rejoice. Just as I rejoice walking with Grace & Dora as they sniff out our Father's world.

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?

The Carol of the Shelves

It's not even noon, yet and so far today I've picked up around the house, shoveled the sidewalk, ran an errand outside the house and hung some shelves in my kitchen window. If I'd done nothing other than hang the shelves; if I do nothing else today with the remaining 12-1/2 hours, I would consider the day a success because of the shelves.

When I moved in to my house in 1996 I thought a few shelves in the kitchen window would be a pretty place to grow a few plants, display some pretty glasses or bottles, etc. And the window has remained barren since that thought first crossed my mind. There isn't even a curtain or a valance in the window. In fact, it's not a window at all but a piece of plexiglass screwed in and duct taped to the wall - it doesn't even have a window frame. (Odd, I know, but I don't care to get explain right now. I have another purpose to this post.)

Today I decided to finally do it. Since I'm unemployed, I have some spare time on my hands. However, since I'm unemployed, I don't have spare cash in my hands. Therefore, I purposed to use various materials (aka "junk") sitting in my basement. I used some scrap pieces of wood, some old rusted screws, etc and hung the shelves.

Since I did not use quality materials and my home repair skills are below basic, the workmanship is not great - in fact, it's laughably shoddy. But I'm proud of the result. And there's the problem - or at least what I think is a problem. (Please comment and let me know if this is or is not a problem.)

The pride in the job is not the issue. I completed a project that I'd wanted done for almost 14 years and I didn't spend a dime. I used my time and my money well - something for which I'm not always noted. But as I was looking at the poor workmanship I thought it would have been a lot better if only I'd asked someone who knew what they were doing to help me. Why didn't I? Is there another kind of pride at work here?

I think I didn't ask because, since I'm single, I feel I'm supposed to be self-sufficient. I'm supposed to be able to do these things on my own or at the very least hire someone to do them. I don't want to impose on anyone - especially for something as trivial as shelves. Those around me have spouses and children to care for. They have their own homes to maintain. And if by chance they do have some free time, they should spend quality time with their families, not hanging shelves in my kitchen window.

As I think this through, I see-saw back and forth. There is truth on both sides. And there are lies, on both sides as well. Where's the balance? What am I missing?

30 Steps to A Perfect Life and Other Lies

I am drawn to books and articles that offer solutions to life's problems in "x" number of steps. Clear and concise instructions with checklists appeal to my linear, methodical way of thinking. Just like various fad diets, they all work if you only can stick to them. But really, how many times can one perfectly repeat a mantra? How many bowls of cabbage soup can one stand?

These articles are nothing more than stylized, heavily marketed versions of the Law and they're lies. They don't work because we're human, we fail, we make mistakes, we become lazy or distracted by other more pressing obligations. The sense of failure when we slip up is devastating and damages our spirits, as well as our bodies.

But there is something/someone that does work - Jesus. "For God has done what the Law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh..." Romans 8:3

Deep breathing has it's place in managing stress. Eating more fruits and vegetables is a healthy practice. Counting to ten before hitting "Send" on a scathing email is a really good idea. But to look to these practices to solve life's problems is futile and leads to even further frustration and disappointment. Pursuing the various programs presented at newsstands and websites have no long-term success because they are not pursued by faith. Correction, they are not pursued by faith in the Sovereign God. Putting one's faith in the program is destined for failure; putting one's faith in God (and we can, only because of Jesus) will always succeed.

Even frustration, though, has it's purpose. "For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from it's bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God." Rom 8:20-21. Success is not defined by how many pounds one loses or accomplishing a debt free life. Success is freedom from bondage to sin and Law. Success is freedom from the disappointment experienced from mistakes and failures and injustices. Success is leaning on God's grace and mercy.

Hark the Herald

My favorite verse from my favorite Hymn:

: "Pleased as man with man to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel."

What more can be said.

Emphasis Mine

It's amazing how changing the emphasis on certain words, changes the meaning of the sentence.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." OR "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."

Bah Humbug

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNkvM1BSwy0

Why is it...

...when I go to bed early to catch up on lost sleep, I wake up even earlier and can't get back to sleep?

Follow the Dress Code

In August, a friend invited me to participate in my first golf tournament. The event was held at an exclusive, private club which has a dress code. Understand that until that day, I'd only golfed in a t-shirt, jeans (or my favorite, bleach-stained shorts) and sneakers. This event required me to wear modest length shorts (not really a problem for me), a collared shirt (no t-shirt) and appropriate shoes. Therefore, I was forced to purchase my first ever pair of golf shoes.

I'm not a great golfer(truly the understatement of the year), but on this day, in my new shoes, I noticed my swing was better than usual. Not great, but better. My girlfriend, Karen (an experienced golfer) commented that I did a good job of keeping my feet straight and still. I attributed this to my new, cleated shoes. In my sneakers, I was probably moving my feet ever so imperceptibly, which was affecting my golf swing. No matter how hard I would try to keep them still, my sneakers were not offering me the stability required.

I thought of this while listening to a sermon recently. The speaker mentioned the passage in Ephesians regarding the armor of God which got me thinking of the part that says "as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace".

Honestly, I do not live the gospel of peace. I get caught up in the shoulda, coulda, wouldas of life and they rob me of peace. Though I know better, I still try to regulate my life with lists, achieving spiritual acceptability through good deeds, etc. but like golfing in sneakers, a life of legalism and salvation by works throws off my spiritual swing and I never reach where I'm aiming. The gospel of peace (through the grace of God through Jesus) keeps my feet and therefore my life steady and straight. I could donate thousands of dollars and hours to charitable works and live the letter of biblical law, but without those "cleats of peace" my feet unintentionally slip and send me into a spiritual rough.

It amazed me at what an impact such a small investment in golf shoes could make on my golf game. Accepting the gospel of peace costs even less than those shoes. God's provided the appropriate footwear and they fit perfectly. I just need to take the time to put them on.

One of C S Lewis's Wisest Quotes

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."

C.S. Lewis

The Never Ending Exam

Seems like there are more questions in life than answers.

Jumping in this Fountain Allowed

"Foul, I to the fountain fly; wash me, Saviour, or I die."

Freud Got Some Things Right

"Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object-relations."

Sigmund Freud

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

A Step Behind

It seems I'm always behind. Whether my housework, homework, work-work and most important...life.

There are milestone markers for children to measure their progress - their first smile, when they're able to roll over, etc. There are also "milestone markers" for more advanced ages, as well. And I haven't seemed to have hit any of them.

While most people learned to drive in their teens, I didn't learn until I was 27 years old. While the average age of a college graduate is 22, I'm still working on my Bachelors degree at 48. While most friends my age have been married quite some time, have children and even grandchildren...well, we know where I rank there.

I'm overcome by a sense of never ever being able to catch up. I'll never reach "my full potential"; my life is half over and it's never really begun.

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

My Failure as an Eco Reader

I've been listening to a lot of books on CD of late. And in the true spirit of Eco Reading, I've been utilizing the public library. I've found that:

a) I'm able to check out new authors without investing in valuable and treasured reading time.

b) I like listening to speaking voices more than I like listening to the music on the radio.

c) And more to the point of this post, no trees were injured in the making of the CD.

However...

when I find a book I like, I wind up making unnecessary trips just to progress further in the book.

Yesterday, I went for a 60 mile drive in order to finish listening to Michael Connelly's "The Overlook" (the first but not the last of his books that I will listen to/read, btw) - greenhouse gases be damned. Not to mention that at the current price of gas, it would have been cheaper to buy the paperback.

Question

Is it better to take the easy way, or take the hard way and fail?

Quote of the Day

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is worth a month's study of books." Chinese Proverb

My Feeble (but Sincere) Attempt at Haiku

Dedicated to A.G.

Cool air Warm conversation A break in the clouds

Why a Bird???

Why did Emily Dickinson describe hope as a bird?

Birds fly away...unless it's a flamingo or an emu. But I don't think flamingos or emus sing a sweet song as the birds of flight. And I don't like the idea that hope can easily flit away.

So why a bird???

I'm in a Sore Storm

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me

-Emily Dickinson

Isaac & Ishmael

When God does His thing, I get Isaac. When I take matters in to my own hands, I get Ishmael. That is why I struggle through each day...I hold out hope for Isaac. But the struggles are exhausting me and it's getting more tempting everyday to settle for Ishmael.

Does Such a Humble Poet Exist?

The Day Is Done

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet.

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Haute Couture

"A mutt is couture - it's the only one like it in the world, made especially for you."

Isaac Mizrahi

Providence and Chocolate Drop Cookies

Growing up, my favorite cookie to bake and to eat was a Chocolate Drop Cookie (with chocolate frosting). I think the recipe came from someone in my sister, Jean's Girl Scout Troop. These cookies were "cakey" cookies. Very rich. They froze well, which qualified them as Christmas cookie-worthy. And they tasted good frozen, which caused my mother much grief as her children raided the freezer in the days leading up to Christmas.

Somehow, the recipe was lost, never to be found again until about 1999. I purchased a new cookbook which contained a recipe very similar (but not exactly) to the Chocolate Drop cookies of my past.

Last evening, I was participating in a Cookie Exchange and I wanted to make these Chocolate Drop Cookies. True to form, I didn't try to bake the cookies until the night before. When I went to the bookshelf for the cookbook, I couldn't find it. I was scrambling through the house searching everywhere and couldn't find it. What I did find, however, was my 37 year old, hand-transcribed Sunbonnet Sue Recipe book with the original Chocolate Drop Cookie recipe.

I was madly praying for the substitute recipe and God answered with the better-than-substitute, original recipe.

There have been a number of instances like this in 2008.

About 2 years ago, I was wanting a new car, something more in keeping with the image I wanted to project - a small SUV. The key word here is wanting, not needing. My car (a '99 Taurus) was in good shape, reliable, and most importantly, paid for. I prayed, decided it wasn't a good time to buy a car and put those thoughts aside.

Last year at this time, I was in a minor car accident - no injuries, just some front-end body damage. But the repair costs exceed the value of the 10 year old Ford Taurus so the insurance company totalled the vehicle. Suddenly the car I wanted, became the car I needed. And at a decent price, I might add. And so I'm no longer driving a middle-aged person's dark green sedan with only a tape deck and (gasp) required KEYS to unlock the doors. Now I'm in a young person's Blazing Copper (ok - burnt orange) Ford Escape, equipped with a 6-disc CD player. And I no longer have to use KEYS to unlock the doors.

In December of 2000, I drove through a snowstorm from Erie to Findlay Lake, NY to buy myself a $75 dollar hat. Frivolous though this might seem, I'd fallen in love with the hat 12 months before and decided that would be my gift to myself when I lost 100 pounds. The very week I hit that goal, I was on the road to Findlay Lake, praying the whole trip - not for safe passage, but that the hat would still be there after all those months. The hat was there, and it looked even better on me than I remembered.

Fast forward to 2005. Each spring, I would store the hat in an old, beat up hat box I'd bought at a garage sale. The hat and the box combined were pretty light. I remember that around the fall of 2005, I went on a mad cleaning spree through my spare bedroom. I looked at the ragged hat box and thought why am I keeping this? So I threw it away. Remember, the weight of box + hat was not much. It was easy to mistake the hat box as empty. Then, come that winter when I couldn't find the hat, I realized what I'd done. It still ate at me that I'd lost the hat because of my own stupidity. I chastised myself over my disorganization. Months ago I prayed that I'd get over that silly mistake. Then in Oct/Nov of this year I was in my attic. Sitting out prominently was the hat box. I picked it up and it felt very light so I really didn't expect to find the hat inside. But it was there!

In each of these instances, I did the right thing - I prayed. My prayers were really unselfish and not outrageous. I prayed what made sense to me - please find the cookbook, help me be satisfied with my car, help me get over the loss of the hat and not be so upset over something so inconsequential...and in each instance God answered my prayers - in ways I didn't expect. If God had answered my prayers as I had prayed them, I might have been satisfied, but He was gracious enough to share His magnificence with me and exceeded my expectations.

So if you catch of glimpse of me driving down the road in my Blazing Copper (ok - burnt orange) Ford Escape, wearing my Cranberry colored hat with the rose pin, munching on Chocolate Drop Cookies, whether you realize it or not, you're also catching a glimpse of God's grandeur.

All Dogs Go to Heaven

"Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in." - Mark Twain

My Rusty Armor

When the slings and arrows of sins against me become to painful for me to bear, I find I start to build a wall. It's built with bricks of anger and resentment and held together with mortar of indignation.

This wall may seem to provide protection, but it is in fact a prison where no nourishment or reinforcements can enter. And it's protective value is only temporary as the walls eventually crumble under the continual onslaught.

Funny thing, tossed off to the side unused and rusting is a Suit of Armor custom built for me and purchased with the blood of Jesus.

My King, please renew the armor for me. Scrape off the rust, oil its hinges and polish it to a heavenly gleam. I am unskilled in it's use; it seems heavy and awkward. In my untrained hands, it seems as if the wall would be safer. Please, my King teach me how to use it effectively until such time the war is over and it can be retired.

Thy Word I Have Hidden In My Heart...

...that I might not sin against Thee. (Ps 119:11). Problem is, I hid the wrong Words. I hid the "thou shalt nots" instead of the "HE wills". I know all the things I'm supposed to do, but weak on the things HE says HE does. This is just as (if not more) sinful against Him. Fortunately, He is merciful. I hid those words, but too often I hid them too well and can't find them easily. But the "thou shalt nots" are in plain view. Of course, my immediate reaction is that I need to better "organize" the Word so I can find what I need when I need them. Again, the emphasis on the I - "thou shalt file God's Word in thy heart in such a way it can be retrieved within 30 seconds of when thou needs it" - forgetting "In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words". Wonderful Counselor, Author and Finisher of our faith, Advocate...to these I add my own paltry contribution - Most Wise and Able File Clerk.

Message from Dog

When Grace (the dog) first came to live with me, she was withdrawn. She'd been abused and abandoned and did not trust me. She hung back and didn't interact with me very much. It took a few weeks of reliable feedings, a lot of affection, and some discipline before her true (graceful) personality came out.

I remember the moment I knew she'd reached the turning point. She did something wrong and I gave her a stern "No". Instead of fearfully slinking away, she walked to her crate, plopped down with with a "Hrmph" and then started muttering under her breath. I'm not sure what she was saying, but I think it was some sort of canine complaining.

Dora was also abandoned and abused. When she was delivered to my home, she had to be carried in, fighting to get away the entire trip down the sidewalk and up the front steps. She definitely had trust issues. With plenty of patient love and regular feedings, she eventually didn't distrust me. I use those words deliberately, because she didn't' trust me, either.

Just from her expressions (yes, dogs have them) I knew she was a dog that longed for affection; she was the type of dog that would love to cuddle.

I'm not ashamed to admit my dogs sleep with me (I owe the Peoria Pair another 14 Things). Once Dora collected enough courage to climb in bed with Grace and I, she laid on top of the blankets; yet, I sensed she was a "burrower". I knew she'd love to climb under a load of blankets and nestle beside me, if she could get past her fear. I think the reason she didn't though was because she was afraid of being trapped.

It took a long time, but I knew she'd successfully navigated a crossroads when she started climbing under the blankets. She trusted me to protect for her in case the boogie man came after her some night.

I see parallels between the dogs' relationship with me and my relationship with God. Like Grace, when I'm disciplined I slink back in fear. Like Dora, I crave the affection and cuddling He offers, but I don't trust Him enough to believe He will protect me; I think I have to take care of myself.

I love Grace and Dora and because of this love - MY love for them - I've seen them grow; I've seen their true, sweet personalities emerge and had the gift of their affection returned. As I observe their growth, I believe there is hope for me, because God's love for me is much greater than the love I can ever have for my dogs. There will be a time when I will not slink back in fear when disciplined. I'll be able to go about my life without looking over my shoulder planning how to defend myself against some attack, because I know my (very strong) Father is watching over me. I'll be able to rest peacefully in His embrace.

Until that time, however, I have to be content with the true hope that I'm making progress, slow as it may be.

Odd Sighting of the Day

I was walking through the lobby of the hospital (Hamot) when I saw on TV Martha Stewart cooking mashed potatoes with...Snoop Dogg. I was (and still am) flabbergasted.

My Life as a Pincushion

I have a relatively easy life. No life threatening situations stabbing me. No horrible crises piercing me like arrows. My daily troubles are pin pricks, in comparison. But there are so many pins aimed my way. It seems everywhere I turn there's another pin pointed directly at my soul. Some of these pins are larger and wound deeper than others and inflict more pain. Though none produce deadly blood loss, I am weakened by "tear loss". The stabs and jabs hurt me, distract me, confuse and disorient me. Sometimes I think it would be easier to face a guillotine once than to face thousands of little needles each day.

He Knows if You've Been XXX or Good

I remember a time when my father took me to the local catholic school to register me for first grade. The teacher had all the children draw a picture. To this day, over 40 years later, I remember the picture I drew. I was on earth doing something or another and in heaven there were angels keeping track of what I did. They were tallying up my good deeds and my bad. I even remember that the number of tick marks in the "good" column outnumbered the bad.

Knowing all I do about salvation, redemption, etc; despite all the sermons I've heard and books I've read, I still live my life as if this picture were true. I live with this nagging fear that the numbers won't add up in my favor.

I've been a list maker for as long as I can remember (even back in kindergarten) and I've rarely finished the items on my lists. Perhaps, because I keep adding to them. I think, if I've completed all these tasks, then surely I must have missed something so I add more things to do. There's always something more I could have, should have done.

Upon reflection, I realize that old picture was only half right (and half wrong). My deeds have been tallied, but when I came to Jesus the "bad" list was destroyed. My "good" list may not be as long as it could/should have been, but who's is? And because of Jesus, the numbers always add up in my favor.

Amazing grace...I once was lost, but now only the list is.

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!

Unfit for Duty

If the joy of the Lord is my strength, then my joy is pretty flabby and out of shape. But what fitness regimen is there for joy?

Unlike the body, I can't force joy exercises upon myself. Contriving it just makes things worse. There are no joy vitamins to fortify my spirit and eating right doesn't nourish me emotionally. While many self-help gurus have joy DVDs to sell me, outlining their 10-Steps to Joy, they're of little use.

It seems there is nothing to DO to attain joy. Meanwhile I feel joy weakening by the minute.

I Will Fear No Evil

Why can I understand this bit of Ps 23 when I'm reading it, but completely forget about it at 10:30 am when I'm immersed in paperwork, the phone is ringing off the hook, I've got 121 emails that need a response and my boss is demanding some update or another - in the valley of the shadow of death?

Better question - how do I remember?

A Simple Thought From a Simple Mind

As I was praying, I realized no matter how much praise I heaped upon the Lord it could never be enough. All that I (or anyone, for that matter) know doesn't even touch the surface of His greatness. Rather than being discouraged, however, I was encouraged by the knowledge that I'm in the care of pretty big hands.

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.

Am I Being Lazy or Practical?

Long story short - dogs were prescribed meds. One particular medication involves diluting a pill in a syringe filled with 10cc of water and then shooting the resulting white liquid into the dog(s)'s mouth. Neither of them likes it much and there has been a lot of white liquid spit out, drooled and dribbled on the floors.

This medication has to be dispensed 3 times per day x 7 days x 2 dogs. That's 42 doses. Twenty one times I have to wipe up the white residue from the floors.

I've taken to leaving the residue behind and plan on cleaning it up when the girls are finished with this course of medication Monday evening. Then I only have to clean it up once. It should be noted that this stuff cleans up easily with a wet rag and does not leave a stain.

So my question - am I being lazy or practical?

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!

Redemption and Home Improvement Shows

I'm (slowly) reading the book "Heaven" by Randy Alcorn. Each chapter (there are 45 of them) is titled as a question one might have about heaven. I recently read Chapter 9 "Why is Earth's Redemption Essential to God's Plan?"

Prior to reading this my answer would have been "what does it matter". I'd never thought much about it, and since it really had no bearing on my eternal standing I put the subject aside and put my thoughts and energy towards other things - like work, laundry, dogs, etc. I even had these thoughts upon first encountering this chapter; however, goal-oriented neurotic that I am, I forced myself to read on, rather than skip ahead to the more important chapter "Will Animals, Including Our Pets, Live Again?". I'm glad I did.

Why is Earth's redemption essential to God's plan, you ask? Well, it's the difference between "Extreme Home Makeover" (EHM) and "This Old House" (TOH). For those unfamiliar with these shows, EHM takes a needy family and razes their previous home, whether it needs it or not, and builds them a brand new, big, beautiful, EXTREME home with all new furnishings, appliances, etc with all the latest bells & whistles. Quite often, they even add a new "appliance" to the garage.

TOH takes an old house and restores it to it's original beauty. They remove the remove the stucco from the regal Tudor-style home, the purple aluminum siding from the Arts & Crafts bungalow, and absolutely BAN rust-colored shag carpeting everywhere. Essentially, they "redeem" the home.

God created This Old Earth and, as Alcorn says, redemption is essential because it emphasizes the value our Creator put in to His creation. He will restore His earth to the original Eden that He intended. There is no doubt that parts will be extremely madeover and rust-colored shag carpeting will be sent to the flames of hell (where do you think those sulfuric fumes come from, anyway). But the basic design and framework of His creation will be redeemed to their original beauty and purpose.

Alcorn did a fine job answering the chapter's title question. More importantly, though, God answered my age-old question of "what does it matter?". While it's true that my thoughts on this topic do not have any bearing on my salvation, they do have bearing on my knowledge of my God and Father. This new knowledge of God's care and plan for His creation reminds me of His sovereignty and reinforces to me that He loves me. In recent weeks I've found this to be very comforting as I struggled with some issues in my life. Whether it's EHM or TOH, home improvement can be very laborious. Fortunately, I have a good Carpenter working on me.