Why It's Important to Check and Double Check a Map

This is dedicated to my friend, Mindy.  Mindy is a godly Christian woman, wife, mother, homemaker, homeschooler AND Occupational Therapist, to name a few of her roles.  Along with all these responsibilities, she has a strong sense of adventure and an amazing ability to not only accept the quirky missteps of life but to enjoy them.  I appreciate this quality of hers and want to emulate it.  Today, I had the opportunity to do so.  I respectfully call this a “Mindy Moment”.

Today is officially Day 1 of my Acadia National Park vacation.  One of my goals for this trip was to get in a lot of hiking.  Trails are rated Easy, Moderate, Strenuous and Ladder (which means there are portions of the trail where you have to cling to climb iron ladders.   Of course these are relative terms; one man’s moderate is another man’s strenuous.

There is a Ranger-led hike tomorrow that I would like to try, but it’s rated Strenuous, so I wasn’t sure I could keep up.  Because I’m somewhat active, I figured I could handle Moderate, no matter what level of Moderate it might be.   It would just be a matter of how well I felt after tackling a Moderate trail, whether I would try the Strenuous hike tomorrow.

I was a responsible hiker.  I carried not one, but two bottles of water and trail mix.  I had sunscreen, bug spray, a hat.  I wore good hiking boots and packed extra socks.  I even had a cool compass/whistle thing (Mindy has a compass/whistle thing, but her’s is way cooler).  AND I purchased a trail map at the visitors’ center, complete with a listing of all the trails, their level of difficulty rating, distance, topography, etc.

I reviewed the map and chose a Moderate trail – the Schiff Trail.  And then I set off.  This trail was pretty much nothing but granite steps up the side of Dorr Mountain, the second highest mountain in the park.  It was definitely taxing and I had to take numerous breaks.   Since this wasn’t a loop trail, to get back to my car I’d either have to connect with one of the other trails ahead or return the way I’d come.  Consulting my map, I could see the shortest way back would be to take Emery Path, a Strenuous rated trail.  I had thought that if I did well on the Moderate trail, I could try the Emery Path to see how strenuous Strenuous was.  Since I was having such difficulty with this path, I was rethinking this plan.

There were a number of times when I thought of turning back.  I wasn’t worn out…yet; but I knew I could find myself overly tired before I turned around and it could be a problem getting myself all the way back to my car.

Still, I pressed on.  I wanted to complete what I started.  Where would Jacob have been had he given up when wrestling with God?  He would have missed out on God’s blessing.  What would have happened had Hannah quit praying for a child?  Because she pressed on she was given Samuel.  I was going to finish this Moderate hike.  I would conquer…and then collapse back in camp!

When I got to the end of the Schiff trail, there was a way sign pointing to the Strenuous Emery Path.  There was also a sign pointing back the way I had just come only it didn’t say Schiff Trail.  It said Kurt Diedrich’s Climb, a Strenuous Trail. 

Though I’d wanted to try one of the more difficult trails, I had not planned on doing so today.  I’d walked in to it (literally) unaware and not at my own timing.  God does things like that.  He’s put me on a difficult life trail, not one I’d have chosen for myself.  If I had known when I started how difficult it would be, I might have turned back long ago or never even started.  But He knows the path He’s chosen for me and He sent His Son, Jesus to walk the same paths before me, blazing trails and leaving way signs along the way.  In fact, because of Jesus’ sacrifice, His willingness to live life as a man and die a painful, sacrificial death, my omnipresent Father is there leading me – beside still waters, through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and up steep granite Strenuous Moderate mountain trails.

Tomorrow, barring incredibly sore muscles, I plan on taking that Ranger-led Strenuous hike.  And I plan on continuing on the life path my heavenly Father has chosen for me.  And on any future hikes this vacation, I will be carefully reading the Trail maps!

 

 

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.

Trashy Thoughts

Why is it my most profound thoughts come to me just as I start to fall asleep?  While I drift off to slumber these inspiring ideas drift off someplace else.  Maybe they travel to the place where socks lost in the dryer and teaspoons that disappear in the dishwasher go to nest.

Why is it my most provocative writing ideas come when all I have at hand are a leaky pen and a mere scrap of paper?  Either the words are too smeared to decipher later or the scraps wind up tossed in the trash.

Maybe it's because these ideas were not as profound as I thought.  Or maybe they were too profound; maybe they would cause me to be too proud.  Losing these thoughts is God's way of keeping me humble; reining in my ego and keeping my reliance on Him closely tethered.

Whatever His reasons, I trust that the words that do survive carry on for a reason; reasons to which I'm not always privy.  Maybe they'll encourage someone.  Maybe they'll make someone laugh (With me not AT me, please).  Maybe the reason is as simple as keeping my head from exploding from the buildup of too many ideas. 

Bizarro Barb

A few months ago, curious about my web presence, I Googled myself.  There were many references to Barbara Best.  Most were something like Santa Barbara Best Vacation or Barbara's Best Cheesecake, etc.  However, one hit really hit home.  It was another Barb Best - a REAL live person, with my name, with her own blog and everything.  I now follow her on Twitter and we are Facebook friends.

Reading her Blog and getting to know her, I'm reminded of the Bizarro Superman comic book.  Or for a more recent reference, the "Bizarro Jerry" episode of Seinfeld.

The other Barb Best appears to be opposite me, from a parallel universe.  From her pictures, she appears to be short; I'm tall.  She's blond; I'm brunette.  She lives on the West Coast; I live on the East Coast.  She won the 2010 Erma Bombeck Global Humor Award; I think I could be a finalist in the Erma Bombeck Housekeeping Award.

It's confused me quite often when I see a Tweet or Facebook Post by the other Barb Best.  My first reaction is that someone must have hacked my account and posted as me.  I wonder if she has the same reaction.  I wonder if my friends think I've suddenly become funnier or her friends think she's having a dry spell.  She hasn't unfriended me, yet so I must not be detrimental to her career.

Recently I saw from her Twitter feed that the other Barb Best is going to be at Lucy Fest in Jamestown, NY.  I work in Jamestown, NY!  I immediately messaged her when I saw this and we plan on meeting; I'm looking forward to this unique experience.  I have only one concern.  Which one of us is Bizarro?

Heal My Lonely Heart

There are millions of lonely people in the world,
Studies show this true.
I wish there were one less around;
Correction, I wish for two.
I pray my loneliness be healed
By His giving me to you.

My Sixth Sense

While out running with my dog, Dora this evening, I was struck by how all my senses were engaged during our jaunt.  I was enjoying the view of the beautiful sunset, the salty sweat dripping from my top lip onto my tongue.  A light rain began to fall and I felt the refreshing droplets tickle my face, the fresh clean scent filling my nostrils.  I was listening to some jazz music while enjoying the gentle shower when I realized what band I was listening to - Weather Report.  During my spurt of giggles I realized I have a highly developed sixth sense - a sense of humor!

A Jackson Pollock Painting-Repost

Reposting this from 2011 'cause it's one of my favorites.  And it's still pretty accurate description of me.

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.

War Wounds

The wounds of loneliness
Bleed tears of grief.
Scar tissue covers the wound
But constricts the heart.

Spin Doctor

Intense.
Emotional.
Passionate.

Who can look beyond the intensity;
Through the emotionality
Recognize and appreciate the passion?

Lonely

Longing overwhelms
Never ending love.
You.

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.

Waiting-A Valentine's Lament

I don’t need to know

What you are doing,

Who you are with. 

I don’t need to know

What you are buying or wearing;

Where your mind and your heart and your body are. 

I don’t need to know

What you are thinking or planning or feeling;

Your hopes, your dreams, your aspirations…

Your desires. 

I WANT to know. 

I want to know

That you are happy, that you are at peace;

That you are under His watchful eye and care. 

I need to know

That I am under His same care;

That the peace I so desire for you is available to me. 

I need to know

That I matter; that my thoughts and plans and feelings

What I hope and dream and aspire

Are of some value, warrant some attention – if not from you, 

From Him.

Peaceful Easy Feeling

There are thousands of books, probably millions of articles and interviews written on how to handle the onslaught of responsibilities and activities and tasks we have taken on.  How to multitask, how to prioritize, how to have it all.

God says it in 8 words:

"Be still and know that I am God."
                                    Psalm 46:10

I can't add anything to that.

Ripples

I awake deep in the night,
My heart pounding;
Hard and fast it beats for you.
It's rhythmic throbbing
Sends shock waves towards you.

Ripples in the ocean
They grow larger, stronger, higher
Becoming earnest waves of emotion
Seeking their way
To the shores of your heart.

Will they reach you?
Will you feel them?
Will they move you;
Throwing you off balance?
Will you respond?

Red Neck Grocery Shopping...

...or "Why I Shouldn't Buy Bras at the Same Store I Purchase Food"

I ran in to WalMart for a quick trip. I wanted to get my hair trimmed in the salon.  Once inside the store, I was told it would be a 45 minute wait so I decided to head home.  But while I was there, why not be efficient and pick up some Diet Coke?  Since I only had  one item to buy I didn't bother with a cart.  If I take a cart during these escapades I end up spending a small fortune; so in an effort to be frugal I abstained.

I was in a hurry so I took the diagonal short cut through Ladies clothing.  I passed a cute skirt (black a-line with a splashy white rose print) that was inexpensive.  I did a quick check and the size and the price were right so I took the hangar off the rack and proceeded towards the grocery section with my spontaneous acquisition.

A few rows later I saw some tights that might look good with the skirt but there were none in the right color or pattern so I refrained, proud of my budget discipline.  I then continued forward to the food, which was why I entered the store in the first place.  Because of some people standing in the aisle on my route, I had to detour.  I then found myself in the lingerie section.  In desperate need of bras and remembering that I'd found an inexpensive, utilitarian model a few months ago, I scanned the racks looking for the proper size that would support my rack.  I found it, grabbed it, and then speedily walked towards the food.  I was congratulating myself on my quick progress through the store. 

I grabbed my intended purchase (Diet Coke) and headed towards the checkout line purchases in hand, as I had wisely forgone a cart.  Again, due to shoppers, I was forced to take an especially circuitous route, this time through the grocery aisles.  Diet Coke and skirt weighed down my right hand at my side, while in my left was the new brassiere, moving in cadence with my step.  Back and forth, up and down the double-barrelled slingshot swung and bounced with abandon.  My speed and tempo was akin to a running back, dodging shoppers right and left, the checkout line my only goal.  The over-the-should-boulder-holder in hand, it brushed against a few shoppers.  Only when the ample, empty cups nearly collected a few canned goods off a shelf did I realize I had been swinging a bra all the way through WalMart!

Next time, I get a cart.

PS - In the "it could have been worse category" I had originally been eyeing up a (tasteful) black lace model but decided to be practical and bought the beige model instead.

The Checkout Line

I stand expectantly

In the checkout line

Waiting for my turn to come;

Biding my time. 

Many others have gone ahead of me

They waited for their turns.

I understand their places in front

They previously had earned. 

But some have come from behind

And pushed me aside.

The jumped the line ahead of me

My good manners they did deride. 

I wonder should I join them,

Taking others’ places?

Ignoring their positions?

Ignoring their pained, hurt faces? 

I still hold my place

Respecting others’ stations.

I accept my circumstance

But I’ve become impatient. 

 

My legs are weak, my feat are numb

My spot in line has not moved.

I've worked so hard, I've waited long

But my place has not improved.

I worry that when I get to the front,

Where the shelves were once so plenty

My turn will come and I will find

The shelves are all now empty.

Waiting for Christmas

Remember as a child, waiting for Christmas to come?  We were distracted and occupied by the excitement of Halloween, then the preparations for Thanksgiving.  But after the turkey was eaten and the leftovers wrapped and packed away, Christmas and all it's trappings were dead in our sights!

The days on the calendar were checked off.  As each block was counted down, the pile of gifts stacked  up proportionally.  Every day one more house on the block was bedecked in lights and garland.

The wait was excruciating.  Curiosity was painful; the anticipation was like an electric current running throughout our bodies, making us tense and excited.  Trying to complete schoolwork was next to impossible, distracted by the thoughts of what was in all those decorated boxes.  The closer Christmas came the worse it got with the anxiety and "what-ifs" and "what-if-nots" stampeding through our emotions.

I've been waiting for "Christmas" to come for a long time.  Earlier in my life, I was distracted by work and activities that kept my mind, body and emotions busy.  But they no longer work.  I'll be 52 in a few months, all the major "holidays" behind me.  The only one looming is "Christmas".  Only this "Christmas" doesn't have a specific date on the calendar on which I can pinpoint being able to open my gift.  There's no way to countdown.  Every day is painful, as I look for signs that "Christmas" is coming.  I don't know if it ever will come for me.

My pain is compounded by the fact most all of my friends have already had their celebrations.  Now their children are enjoying their holidays, as the parents look on sharing in their joy and remembering their  own "Christmas".  I'm still anxiously waiting, wondering if there is a gift for me or am I not supposed to ever celebrate my own "Christmas".  I've had a gift waiting for someone, wrapped and ready; but no one seems to want it.

Every moment I'm on edge - curious, wondering if and when...and why.  At this age, after so long a wait, it's mostly "why?".  My prayers usually consist of two words - my heart not able to voice anything else but "Why?" and "Please!"  I repeat them over and over again, almost like a mantra.  Only this mantra does not bring comfort or peace.

Is this how Jesus feels - the gift He has to offer so many don't notice or outright reject?  Is this what it means to share in His suffering?

To climb out of this vat of self-pity I need to remind myself of the first Christmas 2000 years ago, when the King of Kings lowered himself and volunteered for a messy human birth followed by a messy human life, ending with a humiliating death reserved for criminals, not innocent Kings.  I need to remind myself that though I do not know the date or time or even if "Christmas" will come, the King of Kings knows the plan He has for me.  His plan ends with a great celebration that surpasses any Christmas that we can plan on earth. 

I wait with electric anticipation.  

Miracle Man

Thinking about Jesus' miracles, I realize He didn't perform His miracles to say "Hey, look at what I can do!"  He didn't perform His miracles to say "Hey, you can't do this!"  He performed His miracles to say "You can't do this, so let me do it for you.  Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest."

Remember Me - A Psalm and a Prayer

The sound of my heartbeats
   echo in my empty soul;
Their percussive waves
   shake my being like aftershocks;
A continual reminder of it's desolate state.

Their voice mocks me
"No one wants you."
"There is no one for you"
No one.

I cry out ot my God,"Help me.
Stop the noise,
Fill the void."

But no sound comes back.
My pleas are sucked in to the vacuum of space.
Heaven does not answer me.

So many around me are crying out the same prayer.
The same prayer I've prayed for myself, I've prayed for them.
You hear their prayers.  You hear my prayers for them.

You answer.
You remember them.

Remember me, now.

Please.

Thirty One Days of Joy - Days 1-7

A friend invited me to participate in a Facebook Event, "31 Days of Joy" where participants posted daily throughout the month of January different thoughts on joy.  God has been blessing me with a lot of insight on joy, a topic on which I am woefully inexperienced.  Allow me to share some of these thoughts with you here:

Day 1:  "For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere."  Ps 84:10a

Joy is not dependent on my physical circumstances but on the condition of my spirit.  As long as I am in the secure confines of His walled courts, I know my eternal soul is safe.  It is the condition of my eternal spirit that determines the eternal condition of my mind, body and heart.

Day 2:  Joy through tears.  Interesting concept that I began to understand when I listened to Page CXVI sing their version of "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..."  Normally a rousing chorus, they sing it as a dirge.  Joy is possible through tears when you define joy as Webster's 7th Collegiate Dictionary does - "the prospect of possessing what one desires".  Because of Jesus, believers have the prospect- the good outlook - the sure hope of receiving our hearts desire - eternity with Him.

Day 3:  "Joyful, joyful we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love"
Hearing this song does NOT bring me joy.  It just musically expresses what God, in His great mercy placed in my heart.  My heart unfolds "like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above".

Day 4:  I read a Tweet by Paul Tripp - "When you work to convince yourself that you're okay, you tell yourself that you don't need the grace that is your only hope."  Knowing that the Graceful God, who is my only hope, is also very merciful when I try to tell myself I'm okay.

Day 5:  Joy immeasurable.  This idea brings to mind a picture of overflowing joy; a tsunami of joy!  But immeasurable things can be small, too.  So small they're almost imperceptible.  Sometimes joy is this small.  Sometimes it's so teeny, teeny, teeny tiny you'd need a microscope to see it.  BUT, it's still there.  Even in the darkest times I know there is some iota of joy deep within the recesses of my soul where Jesus still resides.

Day 6:  Having trouble finding joy today.  But because of God's word, I know it's there.  Today is one of those days where I have to allow mind over matter.  I have to believe what I read and know, and not how I feel.

Day 7:  Joy unspeakable.  "Though you do not now see him, you believe him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory..."  1Peter 1:8

How often I rely on that verse that says the Spirit is able to translate those deep painful groanings that I cannot put to words - usually when I'm not getting something I want.  In this verse, there's a joy so complex that I cannot wrap my finite brain around it - here I have something I do not understand.  But the Spirit again translates for me to God's glory.  And I'm able to move forward with quiet confidence.

 

Land of the Giants

Every day I face giants.  Giants who are prettier, younger, smarter and more successful than me.  How can I compete?

Every day I drag myself to the battlefield and plunge on in.  I march through the muck and the mire, evading their blows and dodging their enormous giant feet trying to keep from being crushed under their heels.  Every day. 

Each night I crawl back home to tend my wounds.  My muscles ache and new bruises begin to form on my heart while yesterday's bruises have not even begun to heal.  Every night.

I hurt.

The battle belongs to You, LORD.  Your word says it; I believe it.  I just don't know if I'll be there at the victory celebration.  One day I might trip and be trampled.  One morning I might not be able to drag myself to the battlefield.

But...

When Moses wondered about his ability You told him "Who has made man's mouth?  Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind?  Is it not I, the LORD?"

And...

When the spies returned to the people of Israel to report what they'd seen in Canaan, though the Canaanites were much stronger, Joshua and Caleb said "If the LORD delights in us, he will bring us into this land and give it to us..."

And...

You who began a good work in me will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus.

You created me, LORD.  And because of Jesus, You delight in me.  And You finish what your start.

So tomorrow and any day you ask, I will show up at the battlefield.  I will fight and duck and dart my way through the army of pretty, smart, young, successful giants.  Because when the war is over, there is a place of eternal peace.  There will be no more tears, no more pain, no more bruises.  No more lonlieness or inferiority complexes.   And no more giants who scoff at and ridicule me.

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.

Bad Management

I've written a lot about my love of lists.  So much that I should probably write a list to keep track of them.  A nice orderly index.  Ah, but should the list be alphabetical or chronological????  But I digress...

Digression is not unusual for me in conversation or activity.  One reason I like lists.  I like making and achieving goals. They are my attempts to keep myself focused, on track and organized.  Feeble attempts.

I have many projects that I need to complete (home repairs, bills to pay, doctors appointments) and things I'd like to complete (paint my bedroom, quilt).  I have goals to improve my health, my mind and my spiritual life.  Not bad goals at all.

I 've realized, however, that I never really ask God for his advice on any of these.  I presumptively thought that since they weren't sinful that He approved.  It's not like one of my goals was to rob a bank!  These were all good things.

But this thinking takes authority away from God.  I ask Him to bless my goals, I hold Him responsible when things don't go right, but I don't let Him set the goals or make the list.  Any management book will tell you that giving someone responsibility without the authority to carry it out is a disaster.

Significance

"To me, one of the proofs that God's hand is behind and all throughout this marvelous Book we know as the Bible is the way it continually touches upon this very fear in us - the fear that we are so insignificant as to be forgotten.  That we are nothing.  Unconsciously, His Word meets this fear and answers it."
                                                                                                    -Amy Carmichael

Am I a Writer? I Am a Writer.

Just because I like to write, does that make me a writer?  Just because I can string together a few words and form a coherent sentence on a sheet of paper (or computer screen, as is the case), does that make me a writer?  Just because I maintain a blog, does that make me a writer?

I think of all the people who list their occupation as “Actor” who wait tables.  Am I writer who happens to work as a Purchasing Manager?

I write a lot.  I have computer files and folders of various writing projects.  As I’ve cleaned out some storage boxes and drawers lately, I keep finding paragraphs and essays I’ve written through the years with which I (still) cannot part.  But none of this, in my opinion, makes me a writer. 

Just because I’ve not submitted anything to a publication does not disqualify me from claiming the title “Writer”.  Just because I haven’t had anything published or sought an agent does not disqualify me from declaring myself a writer.  I deny myself the privilege of “Writer” status because I have not been open about my pieces.  I’ve been selective about what I’ve published on my blog and even more selective about revealing (via Twitter, Facebook, etc.) that I’ve even blogged; leaving the possibility of acquiring any sort of readership to a chance “Google” encounter.

Writers must be open and authentic in their craft.  Fiction writers must be honest about their characters if they want to persuade their readers to take interest in them.   Essayists must be willing to reveal a part of themselves if they want to compel their audiences to feel and understand their points.  Writers of Non-Fiction take the chance readers will mock their assertions; but they still have to reveal them.

Composing at a keyboard; writing in a journal; scratching out a phrase or sentence on a Post-it does not make one a writer.  Writers need an audience of more than one.  Writers must be willing to put “put themselves out there”.   Writers need to click the “Link to Twitter and Facebook” options on their Blogs and then hit “Send”.

Let’s see if I’m “write” about this.

Maybe This is Why

"Let thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee." (from Come Thou Fount)

Maybe I have such a heart that wanders more than some that I have to be kept on short leash, never allowed to run.  Because of Jesus, I have the sure hope of heaven and will appreciate the leash at that time. But for now I look longingly at those who can be trusted to run off leash and wish I could join them, be one of them.

A Christmas Carol and then some

Some random thoughts on Christmas Carols...

• My favorite Christmas Carol is "Hark The Herald Angels Sing".  I still tear up when they sing it at the end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas". 
• My favorite line from my favorite Christmas Carol - "pleased as man with men to dwell".  Despite knowing what the future held for Him, Jesus - King of Kings, Lord of Lords, God incarnate was pleased to humble himself and come to earth to dwell with us. Pretty amazing stuff.
• From "Silent Night" - "Jesus Lord at thy birth".  THIS is what makes Jesus different from all the other gods and prophets.  He was Lord from birth.  He wasn't appointed; He didn't earn the job; He didn't have some divine revelation in grad school.  He was Lord from the beginning.  He was God, sent by God.  Begotten not created (from "O Come All Ye Faithful")
• A friend posted this on his blog Did Jesus Cry on Christmas?.  It reminded me of a TV Christmas movie from about 30 years ago, "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever".  During the pageant, Mary picks up Baby Jesus and starts to pat him on the back.  A snotty little girl remarks "Look at her.  She's burping him like he has the colic".  I realized that God Almighty might have had the colic!  And He had messy diapers, too.  And (you're right, Joe Fornear) He cried.  How humbling and humiliating it was for Him to take human form - and for what?  For who?  Me!?  Again, I say, pretty amazing stuff.

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.