Simply Hard

The alarm went off at 4:50 this morning so that we could stagger to the coffee maker before joining the throngs at Fred Meyer for the Annual Sock Shop. Every year on black Friday Fred Meyer discounts all their socks by 50%. They have lots of other things on sale, too, but it's the socks that get us there. Every one of our kids counts on a years supply of socks for Christmas....probably viewed with enthusiasm equal to a father receiving a tie for Father's Day. But, whatever. Socks are expensive.
We wandered the aisles while sipping complimentary coffee and browsed the deals of the day.
"Do we need more sheets?" I asked Tim.
"Well, for $29.99 we sure do. Grab a set" says he, "did you see how cheap these pillows are?"
"Oh! Get two! Thermal beverage ware is on sale. We need more places to pour coffee!"
...and so it went. For an hour and a half. Because you never know what you need until it's on sale for a limited time.

Now it's 8 am and I've already spent the Christmas money, had my daily quota of caffeine, and spent a little time reading my new favorite bible commentator.
The commentator was talking about how very much we like to complicate things. At one point, Jesus mentions that the greatest commandment is to love God and the second is to love people. It's profound in its simplicity, but not remotely easy. I want to identify the rules, and know precisely which items I can check off my list. If I'm completely honest, it's often that I'm curious to find the loopholes where I may exploit a bit of wiggle room.This is the beginning of my desire to complicate. I want to Love God only if that means that I can imagine a sort of cosmic oneness that is entirely emotional. But when Jesus spoke of loving God, He seemed to have in mind a totality of surrender that I find inconvenient.
My buddy, Herschel, went on to discuss the Golden Rule and he pointed out something that I had never considered before. He says that the admonition to treat others as we would want to be treated requires that we chose to act. This becomes very thought provoking in contrast to a more widely accepted norm, which is the passive decision to do no harm. See, most people, I think, would agree that they don't want to hurt anyone. Mind your own business, and don't be mean. But that is very different from what Jesus is teaching. Jesus goes a step further by suggesting that we are to intentionally Do Good. "Love your Neighbor" requires that you look about you, see who needs love, and then you must move forward and get busy. Very different from minding your own business. In order to love other people, we must be minding their business, and this is an idea which is very much out of vogue.
How simple my life would be if I surrendered myself each day to my Creator, and actively sought to meet the needs around me.
The desire to complicate matters led the fellow in Scripture to ask Jesus to identify, precisely, whom he needed to be nice to. Jesus blew up any ideas of racial prejudice with a little story we know as The Good Samaritan. The point being that there is no one I get to ignore.
Simple. And very, very hard.

Ministry

I've just stumbled upon a new biblical commentator this morning, and his writing style thrills me. He is terrifically concise, yet deeply wise. "Pithy" as my mother might say.
I have an extensive library which constantly yields unexplored treasures. This could mean that I have way too many books (a perspective my dear husband frequently proclaims) or that I am sorely negligent in my reading habits (which is partly true).
I chanced upon this particular book yesterday while dusting. Dusting is another area in which I find that I tend to be somewhat negligent.
Anyway, there I was, dusting in anticipation of distributing various holiday paraphernalia when I happened upon a lovely set of five or six matching books with the intriguing title Proclaiming the New Testament. As I am, in fact, reading the New Testament, it occurred to me that I may find this resource to be useful. The first book of the set is written by a man named Herschel which delights me for no other reason than that I find the name amusing. His name is Herschel H. Hobbs, the alliterative poetry seems to me so very appropriate for an author. No one so named could be boring.
The books are intended to inspire formal ministers to greater depths of study, a goal they likely have successfully fulfilled. I'm inspired, though I am no minister, and I am so far off Formal as to be hardly capable of using the term.
Which brings me right round to the point of my morning musings:

I think that the word "Ministry" is terribly misunderstood. I looked it up in the dictionary and was given the less-than-helpful definition
"the work of a minister."
This seems woefully inadequate and sharply misleading. It seems to me that the word might be more accurately defined as
"the work of Jesus,"
since this is both broader, and more to the point. Broader, because ministering doesn't need to be done by a formal pastor-type person. Ministering, if it is the work of Jesus, can be done by an intentional child. It's more to the point, because it is the the work of Jesus and not the work of man... Or should be. The ministers of Jesus' day were those to whom Jesus applied the sharpest criticism because they were vigorously diligent in their pursuit of religion, and entirely bereft of a love for people. Perhaps, then, we can hone our definition a bit more by adding
"doing the work of Jesus by loving people."
How is that for a definition?
Suddenly, ministry becomes something that you and I are capable of doing even if we have no formal training.  I can comfort someone who is sad, feed someone who is hungry, spend time with someone who is lonely, give to someone who has a need. Suddenly, I find that my active listening, or my hugs, or even my tuna casserole becomes holy. If we are loving people intentionally, then we doing exactly what Jesus was doing. If we are loving Jesus by loving people, then we are fulfilling our purpose. That is ministry.

Epic lessons from the kitchen. Tim's kitchen, anyway.

Like many proud Americans, I intend to spend some concentrated time in the kitchen today, preparing for an epic feast tomorrow. I'm not a particularly good cook, though, and the process of assembling meals is not a task I enjoy. We never go hungry because I can present daily fare that is nourishing, if not particularly fancy.
My husband, on the other hand, is something of a gourmand. That man consistently prepares foods that are aesthetically pleasing and delicious. I don't even try to compete. Neither do make many successful attempts at self restraint when he cooks. This is the very reason I will never reach my goal weight.
Watching Tim in the kitchen is a perfect delight. He enjoys the process, revels in the time it takes, and lingers over the preparation simply because it makes him so happy. He uses fresh ingredients and attends to detail. I always rely on shortcuts. I adore convenience foods like canned garlic, dried herbs, and frozen chopped onions. I offer store-bought dessert, he makes pumpkin cheesecake from scratch. His lasagna is to-die-for, mine is from Costco. I do not know the difference between roasting and baking...I just put the pan into the oven until the food is palatable, and call it good.
The differences between my cooking and Tim's are two-fold: Attention to detail, and passion.

My young friend, Katrina, got me thinking about this because she was talking about the mundane aspects of life. Most of what we do every day is in the same category as brushing-my-teeth, sitting in traffic, and tuna fish casserole. It's lame.
Social media has me believing that I should be Doing Epic Stuff. I should change my world. The Power of One, and all that. But this delusion of grander isn't just brought on by the advent of technology. I have gleaned the very same discontent from the pages of my bible. Every time I turn the page in that exalted tome, I find another remarkable personality who did Something Important. I forget that the page or the paragraph is just a moment of their existence.

Joshua led the invasion of Jericho by marching 'round about until the walls came crashing down. That was cool. But we don't read about the bulk of that week in his life. He probably had to watch the kids while his wife milked the goat. Maybe his grandchild spit up on his last clean shirt and he stubbed his toe while hurrying across camp. I'll bet that most of his week felt too busy, what with all the details of life. Yet, scripture doesn't tell us that stuff. It doesn't make for riveting reading.

Jesus, himself, did all kinds of Epic stuff. There's the raising the dead stuff, the feeding 5000 stuff, the whole resurrection thing. We forget that there were another 30 years of His life about which we know almost nothing. There were certainly skinned knees and diapers, and schooling and work. Even the bits between the stories we do know are left out.... There was cooking and laundry, and lots of walking on dusty roads. There was drama among friends, illness, and grocery shopping. It's just the stuff of everyone's life.

We have to live the daily drudgery with faithfulness and determination. Do the chores, make the casseroles, direct the children. The thing about The Epic Stuff, is that it usually doesn't come labeled. You don't get a text message saying "Today is the day that all your faithfulness will coalesce into something grand!" This does not occur (or never has for me).

What is far more common, is that a habit of faithfulness makes one into the sort of person who is faithful. A life of Passion, and Integrity, and Obedience in the small things cultivates a Character who will apply these qualities when the Epic Stuff does come around. If I am not the sort of person who is about the details of life, I may very well miss the opportunity when Epic-ness presents itself.

I think that's why the daily details matter so much. Make your bed. Call your mother. For Pete's sake, brush your teeth. You don't have any idea if today is the day that your decisions will matter, so be ready.

This is why Tim's cooking is so good. He gives every step in the process his entire attention and his best effort. So, the final product is amazing. Your final product will be a direct result of the work you have put into it.
What does the mundane business of your life reveal about your abilty to handle the Epic Stuff?

Cloistered

I have been contemplating the concept of holiness lately, though I confess to arriving at questions more often that answers. The entire idea of Christians pursuing a sort of God-honoring holiness is troubling in the extreme. This idea is not a new one, in fact every religion has a standard of behavior that seems to uphold whatever the wise ones define as an acceptable countenance before God. In my reflections upon growing up in the evangelical christian church those ideas were very much performance driven.(I suppose that isn't entirely fair to say, but it is how I think of it.) My ideas of holiness, of righteousness, had a lot to do with good manners and proper, ladylike behavior... Wearing hose with my Sunday best... Behaving in a way that is demure and respectful... Offering coffee or tea at ladies bible studies... Talking about things that are inoffensive, and frankly, smarmy.

I'm struggling with this so much right now because the actual practice of my (no less sincere) faith is not remotely nice or demure or simple. In fact, my calling involves so many things that seem so far from this sheltered understanding of holiness that I find myself questioning that ridiculous question "What would Jesus do?" I say "ridiculous" because there are so many contradictory misunderstandings regarding what He may or may not do.

What does holiness look like with a heroin addict detoxing in my home?
What does righteousness look like when the topic of discussion is prison shanking, or worse prison atrocities?
Does a godly woman deign from discussing the millennial topic of legalizing marijuana?
Would Jesus be shocked at repeated, enthusiastic expletives, or would He look past them to the heart of what the speaker is trying to communicate?

So many of the people around me are rough and scarred. If I'm the sort of woman which I always thought exemplified holiness...I'll be entirely irrelevant to them. I can't be shocked when talking about rape, or neglect, or the "f"bomb, or drugs. These are people. Real people whom Jesus loved enough to die for! How can I be shocked when their stories are raw and real in a way that needs, Demands!, an answer from a relevant, loving, Almighty God?

It would be so much easier to serve God from the sanctuary of a nunnery.

But Jesus didn't do that, did He? He didn't love the people from afar. He ate with the prostitutes and the political traitors. He got dirty with them, without becoming dirty Himself. I am amazed at this. And this brings me back to my question: What does holiness look like?

Tea time

I had no alone time today, save those brief moments during which I showered.
Someone admonished me, a couple years ago, that daily washing of the hair is not at all good for hair. Something about drying it out and thinning it, or some such. This came as quite a surprise to me, as I had previously washed my hair every single morning of my life, unless bedridden. Come to find out....dry shampoo covers a multitude of sins and contributes to the illusion of thickness. This has radically altered my daily hygienic routine. I've worked up to a long four day stretch between washings, although this is a pretty if-y prospect. It's really quite remarkable the time I save by not blow drying.

My daughter-in-law came over for tea this afternoon so that I could meet her extended family. I think it was important for them to see that though their little darling married an incarcerated felon, why, he comes from a good family. I got to meet her momma, her sister, two grandmothers, a grandpa, and a dear friend of the family. On my team it was just me and my mother, so we worked together to present a respectable picture of well-balanced normalcy. All of us minded our manners over tea and cucumber sandwiches....until the topic of politics was broached. Evidently, a couple ladies in my home felt rather strongly regarding the current administration's policies. Unfortunately, there was some divergence regarding said policies. Although the conversation was, at times, certainly enthusiastic, the ladies were able to restrain themselves from violence. At the end of the day, I think they had enjoyed the lively debate, and the rest of us had benefited enormously from the entertainment.

High tea is such a delightfully dignified experience. I love the specialness of it. It always seems to make even grown women feel as if they have arrived at a magical party with the White Rabbit and the Mad Hatter. I wonder if it has that effect upon people in England where it is more of a regular practice?
I was washing my fragile porcelain cups and saucers in sudsy water after everyone left. I pulled a painted candy dish from the bubbles and turned it over to find writing on the bottom. It said, "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me. Bless His Holy name!" My granny had painted those words years ago. Much of the porcelain in my home was painted by my very talented granny, and so often I find that she took the time to inscribe a bible verse or a personal note on the bottom of one thing or another. It's just one of the ways that her voice continues to speak to me. I paused, there, with my hands in the dish water, and I took her advice. I thanked God for Who He Is, and I thanked Him for tea and extended family, and I thanked Him that we can have friendly arguements over politics. And I thanked Him for Grannies.

Solitude

I was describing, for Tim, the relaxing nature of an echocardiogram. This was in anticipation of my scheduled appointment for just such a procedure this morning. One is compelled to recline, shirtless, in a dimly lighted room with an attendant rubbing lubricant into one's chest. It is quite relaxing, if one isn't terribly modest.
The woman who ran my echocardiogram was kind and chatty. She has a son who has struggled with addiction for years, and so we had a common topic to discuss as she unearthed the hidden mysteries of my heart. Literally, as well as figuratively.
My heart is very strong, evidently. Literally. Figuratively it's kind of touch-and-go. You know how it gets, what with the prison, the drug scene, a daughter going off to college and the one high school freshman still needing all the parenting. It's a wonder my heart beats as often as it does.

No one is around today and I have the house to myself. It's pure bliss. Alone time is a treat that can not be overstated. This could be the reason that I eagerly anticipate various medical tests. In addition to the actual appointment, I get the bonus personal space afforded me in the waiting room. There's nothing like the quiet time before a doctor's appointment for getting a gal into her happy place.

Alone time is also the primary reason I run. Running makes my heart strong, clearly, but it also contributes to my ability to abstain from homicide as often as I do.
Most people wouldn't dream of going for a run with me. If I plop down in the living room with a cup of tea and a thick novel, however, suddenly everyone wants to snuggle-cuddle-share-and-chat. I become The Most Popular Person on the Premises. But, if I invite the kids to go for a jog....quiet time.

Speaking of running, did I tell you that I ran in a little race recently? It was three weeks ago, and I was proud as punch. In celebration of that event, I've been eating simple carbohydrates and drinking wine ever since. This could explain why I seem to have gained an easy five pounds.

I was planning to get out for a run today, but I was thwarted by the welcoming embrace of absolute silence at home. And also by the apparent return of winter. Two days ago I was sweltering in the sun, and today I'm sitting by the fire watching the rain. With Idaho weather being what it is, I wouldn't be all that surprised to find the yard covered with snow by evening. It's very unpredictable.

I gained a daughter, or so I'm told

So, I'm feeling just that bit melancholy. I get depressed for, like, 10 minutes at a time. Usually, the sight of something shiny bumps me right out of the mood.

My eldest child got married on Friday. I think that is what has got me feeling all emotional. Clearly I am no longer the most important woman in his life.
He called Friday afternoon and said "Mom, um, I am married." Just like that.

He's in prison, you know. Apparently he and the missus applied for the privilage of marrying about six weeks ago, but they kept the application a secret. In prison one must seek permission for these things, but one needn't tell one's mother. Not that I'm bitter.

They were not notified that the application had been approved until The Very Day. Allura (that's my daughter-in-law) got a call asking her to show up in 45 minutes for her wedding. Michael was unaware of his impending nuptuals until he was shown into a room where he found his beloved and a preacher awaiting his arrival. I'm told he blanched absolutely white. Gathering his shakey wits, he was evidently able to rise to the challenge, and so they took the requisite vows. Voila: man and wife.

He was a baby a minute ago.

I love them.

Tis the season of deprivation

I'm certain you are all bemoaning the advent of this holiday season: Lent is upon us. We did our best last evening to finish up what desserts remained in the house, as well as anything remotely intoxicating. This was just our way of embracing Fat Tuesday.

I wonder if Jesus over-exercised His God-ness the day before He came to be born. Do you think so? Maybe he was all creating new life forms, or something, in anticipation of limited powers for the next 33 years, or so.
I guess it was more likely the day before He was conceived (which would blow the minds of abortion activists if that's the case)...what with the argument over when life begins.
But, if He wasn't growing in Mary's belly, I just don't know who was.

We have practiced Lent for years. It is the forty day fast in anticipation of Easter. We each chose to give up something-or-other as a daily reminder of all that Jesus gave up to come live a mortal life.
It's usually not a Protestant thing, but I actually like the discipline.
This year I am abstaining from both alcohol and desserts.
This is likely to make my evenings dull. I don't even know what to do without a handful of chocolate covered almonds, dark chocolate with sea salt, or a glass of wine.
I'll probably get to bed earlier. I may even drop those persistent pounds.

Knowing that there is a stretch of deprivation before me just makes me want something all the more. There are Girl scout cookies in the pantry. This is not a helpful thought.


It's an interesting discipline, this going without.
How often I finish a meal with some small sweet. It's common to relax with a libation at the end of a day.
These little things become habits, and habits put down roots.
Lent serves as a barometer of sorts, to bring into clarity just how much of a hold a particular habit has upon my life. One year I gave up meat, One year I gave up simple starches (bread, rice, pasta). I know people who have given up social media.
By far, the most revealing for me has been alcohol. I am always astonished to find how difficult it is to go without it for so long. Not only is it at seemingly all the events I attend, but it's deeply rooted in the culture.
It's deeply rooted in my culture, anyway.
I am also usually struck by how easy it is to go without it....contradictory, I know. It's just one of those things were both are true at the same time.
I don't need it to make a meal fancy, nor to linger over a conversation, nor to cope with an overwhelming day. When it's not an option, I am mindful of how frequently it normally is an option.
I suppose the same realizations occurred with other elements of my diet. I eat meat at almost every meal. Is that even good for a body? And simple starch? Ugh.

I wonder if Jesus missed those parts of His Deity that He did without for so many years. With all the miracles we read about, I wonder how much He actually did without. Some, surely.

He made wine, at that wedding in Cana. I'll bet it was mighty good stuff. I wonder if He ever made Dark Chocolate Covered Almonds with Sea Salt, just as a secret treat for His disciples? Like, Poof, "You guys gotta try this stuff." I would have, had I been He.

In which I tell you far more than you ever wanted to know about Tim's head injury and the various dramas of my parenting and running. As if any of that was remotely related.

So, hi.
How you doin'?
I don't even know how to tell you how I am. Actually, I just realized that I began a post here a month ago which I never finished. Want to see it? Here you go:

There is a verse in the bible that says "walk by faith, not by sight." While I concede that there my be practical limitations to the total application of this tidbit of proverbial wisdom, the spiritual and metaphorical truth is undeniable. Never more so than for me this past week.

It is so easy for me to get entirely wrapped up in the chaos I see around me, especially that within my own household. "Walking by sight" would frequently mean panic. Walking by faith means that I can comfortably acknowledge that I haven't the foggiest notion of how to best interpret the circumstances around me. If I rely on the Goodness of God, and trust in His Sovereignty, then I am far less inclined to curing up in the fetal position.
It seems like we endure a remarkable amount of high drama in this family. I, by nature, am less even-keeled than I might be. Indeed, I've had to learn how to keep my eyes on the One Who is always Assured so that I am not upended by the storms of life.
I wonder if part of the reason we are not to walk by sight is that we so seldom see things as they really are? I can't tell you the number of times I have thought that things were moving along so peacefully, only to find that catastrophe was upon me and I never saw it coming. Or, times I thought things were just dreadful, yet they turned into a blessing in disguise.
The trick, of course, is to remember that in the heat of the moment. When the proverbial rug is pulled out from under me, it's very difficult to bear in mind that I don't have enough perspective to see the situation clearly.

For instance, my beloved son's addiction has been spiraling out of control (as if it was ever in control!)....yet, the result is that he chose to check himself into rehab. Panicking about that would have been an exhausting waste of my energy. Of course, I've no idea what will happen next, either.

On Wednesday afternoon, I received a phone call from my husband. His ringtone is "Let's Get it On," by Marvin Gaye, so I always answer his calls with a twinkle in my eye.
"I fell at work. I'm at the doctor. I'm having memory problems." He sounded distinctly unromantic.
"Where are you?" I asked, while my stomach flipped.
"I have no idea. Across the street from Jackson's, near work" which was less specific than one might hope for in terms of directions, but it served to point me south. For Tim to say "I have no idea" regarding his location was truly alarming.
Fortunately, I found him directly, after weaving through traffic at a high rate of speed. He was answering the doctor's questions.
"What year is it?" inquired the physician.
"I don't know."
"Do you know who the President is? This is kind of a trick question." The doctor smiled at me.
Tim turned to me with a quizzical expression, "I don't know."
"Well," said the doctor,"Who is the last president you recall?"
"I don't know."

Memory problems, indeed.
The doctor was comfortable diagnosing a concussion, but sent us to the nearest emergency room for further study.

.....That ended rather abruptly, although I can't recall what called me away from typing. I can tell you how it ended up, since you are likely curious. Tim had no memory for a day. He had a bump on his head, and missed several days of work. His memory came back, though, within hours. He still can't remember much of the actual day of his injury, but at least he can remember ten seconds ago. That was not the case as we sat in the emergency room that day. Talking with him then was a lot like talking with an Alzheimer's patient. We had the same conversation every three minutes on repeat. It was like this:
"How did we get here? Did you drive? Can we afford this? Where are the kids? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY TOOTH? Did you drive us here? Where are we? Where are the kids? My tooth is broken! What happened to my tooth?"
- Which actually leads directly into another funny story. See, about two weeks before the bump on the head, Tim had broken a tooth while eating popcorn. Despite my earnest pleadings for him to go see a dentist, he staunchly insisted that he was fine. It was no big deal. No need to see a dentist, at all.
Fast forward to the head injury where he totally forgot that the fragment of tooth was no big deal.
"What happened to my tooth???" He'd ask
"You broke it on popcorn a couple weeks ago." I explained (while fighting a smile)
"A COUPLE WEEKS AGO? Have I been to the dentist??!!!"
"No dear."
This appeared to mystify him, and he'd thoughtfully prod the affected area carefully with his tongue for several seconds before asking me how we got to the emergency room.
Hilarious in retrospect. Terrifying at the time.
And, no, he still hasn't gone to the dentist. Apparently, the broken tooth is no big deal.

Also, my beloved son checked himself out of detox and is now gainfully employed. So, we have that going for us.

I was trying to explain to the ladies in my bible study group today why I am just that little bit tense. It seems to have something to do with the dissonance that occurs when dealing with the normal annoyances of parenting, threats of prison gang attacks, and your marijuana enriched thug life. It's more than I'm really comfortable folding into my life, if you want to know the truth. You'd sure think I'd be better at it by this time, but you would be wrong.  I'm not any better at it. I may, in fact, be worse.

Plus, there's more. For real. If I'd write more frequently, perhaps I wouldn't drivel for pages and pages, yet, here we are.
Anyway:
I signed up to run Robie Creek. It's a thing. It's a half marathon which no sane person would do on purpose. It's 8 miles up hill and 5 down. I think I need to prove that I can do it. So, I appear to also need some therapy, and potentially some anti-inflammatory meds, as the training is going to be brutal.
On that note, I am going to hit "publish" because I really cannot ask you to commit much more of your day to reading my ramblings.

Injustice and death, and the Supreme Otherness that is God

Today would be my little sister's 43 birthday, except that she is forever frozen in time at the age of 18 and a half. Do you think that people are ageless in Heaven? What would that look like, exactly? Do you think everyone looks about 25 in Heaven? Or are they eternally preserved as they appeared at the moment of death? That would seem inconvenient to an infant, or disappointing for someone in their 90's...or their 40's for that matter.
My sister died in a car wreck on November 9, 1991. She's now been in Heaven longer than she was on earth.

I'm feeling pensive this afternoon, though it's not so much due to the date of my sister's birth or the consequence of her death. I've been thinking of other unanswerable questions. Mostly, I'm feeling just a bit frustrated with the unfairness of life.
Why is there drug abuse? Why are violent predators allowed to draw breath? Why are beautiful infants given to profoundly negligent parents? Why are some people discarded while others are pampered? Why is it that God allows some people to endure such unimaginable circumstances?
I have a young friend whose life has been one instance of abuse followed fast by another. The neglect and evil foisted upon her has continued from the cradle unabated. I have been loved and treasured my whole life, while this lady has never known such security.
I feel so powerless in the face of these problems. It baffles me to consider that the God of Infinite Power has seemingly done so little to put all these wrongs to right. Has He no magic wand with which to transform the world?! 
Transformation is precisely what He offers, yet so few avail themselves of it. Transformation, Forgiveness, Healing, Abundant Life. The galling part, at least to me, is that He makes these wonders available to the Abuser as well as to the Victim. The Rapists, Murderers, and Drug dealers are offered the very same Love and Newness of life as are the children, the discarded, the forgotten. This seems every bit as unfair to me as is the sin committed by the monsters...Until I consider my own unbalanced sense of Justice.
I see the consequences of sin in the lives of those I love. I want to punish those who have made them to suffer so. I want to hate.
God extends the offer of Jesus to each and every one.  It is terribly unfair. The convoluted part is my belief that I deserve blessing while They deserve judgement. The truth is that I deserve Judgement and they deserve judgement. Jesus stepped up and took mine for me. That's the only reason I am not going to burn in Hell as I deserve.
See, God sees this wicked horror that mankind perpetrates upon one another. He hates it. But He loves these people like I love my own children (felons though they be!) He wants them all to be restored, even the really really bad ones.
I think I don't understand a God that can be so cruel as to allow abuse to continue. Then I realize that it isn't the cruelty I can't understand (that really comes very easily to me). What I can't understand is the Love. I can't understand a God who loves an abuser so much that He would make forgiveness so freely available.
I can't understand.
I guess I don't really have to understand it. It is so, whether I understand it or no. I, too, am the recipient of His Unfair, enormous Love. I'm really glad of that, after all.

My heart should still break for the mistreatment of people, I think. There is so much evil in this world.
And, I guess I should rejoice that God is God and I am not. I'd be blasting people willy-nilly with my magic wand.

Good grades!

I may want to give some thought to writing here in the mornings. I find that my effervescent nature is most buoyant in the mornings. By evening, I am cynical and morose and not at all fit for public consumption.
My husband was off work today, so I spent every waking moment in his company. This allowed me to ignore my beloved children to a large degree. He and I did take the youngest two out to Marie Calendars for  celebratory pie because their semester grades warranted it. Both did very well. We are all about a dose of sugar for good grades.

Michael is pretty sure he got a good grade on a major math test he took today. He won't find out his actual grade for a couple of weeks, but he felt terrifically confident after finishing the exam. I assured him that we'll definitely take him for some pie, too, just as soon as he gets out.
Is it weird that I can be so very proud of my kids just where they are? Heck, Don is detoxing, which is why he's been pacing like a caged animal. I'm proud of him, too. I wouldn't want to deal with all these kids have on their plates. I'm proud of every step they take in a forward direction. It's the backwards steps that get me down. Or the forward ones that involve anguish. Who am I kidding? I'm proud of them and agonized all at the same time.

I know I complain. I air our dirty laundry. I tell you all the stuff we are dealing with. You hear much of the worst of it. But, I hope you know that I love my children. I adore them right down to my toes. I love them so much that it hurts to breathe, and I desire good things for them with all that is in my being. I pray, I cry, I write. And I keep on loving. That is what moms do.

I propose a new topic

Enough about addiction. Let's complain about a different one of my offspring this evening, shall we?

Before we do, though, I'd like to show you the bag of dark chocolate I've been eating this evening. It was much nearer to being full about 15 minutes ago. It's comfort food, really. Shall we discuss my lack of makeup? Or just save that for another day?

So, my eldest is in prison, you know. He has this seriously cute little girlfriend who comes by the house to visit with me quite often. The problem I'd like to complain about is that Michael invariably calls me when she is here. This always results in his asking "can I just say 'hi' to her?" Which means that they embark upon 30 minutes of giggly chit-chat. Not that I resent that, not exactly. Understand that phone conversations with the prison are not free. They are 10 cents for every minute. Not only have I been thrown over for a pretty young thing, but I'm paying for the privilege. 

This is my favorite stone face. I keep him in my hidey-hole of an office because he brings me a whimsical joy. Other stoned faces are not allowed in my hidey-hole of an office because any face that is stoned just irritates me. Thus, we have made it back, full-circle to the tired old topic of the past few years.

Today was a little rough around here. As opposed to yesterday, which was a walk in the sunshine. Have I mentioned that living with addiction in the house is erratic on a good day, and downright insane on a bad day.

I'll tell you what, though, I'm sure learning to be unruffled in the face of sizable provocation. A set of headphones and a vigorous workout session go a long way towards keeping me sane.

So does a good marriage. 

My husband is a balm for my soul. That man keeps me grounded and secure in the face of some kind of crazy. Days like today, when  my heart is shredded and I'm beyond exhausted from dealing with the unfathomable, he will walk in and wrap his arms around me. He offers me such love without judgement. I can rail and cry or complain or freak out....he just takes me as I am. I can't even imagine dealing with this insanity without his strength.

This picture was taken 9 years ago. Not a one among us was on drugs or in prison. Good times.

Cursing and damnation, with Punctuation of praise

I'll tell you what I did today: said a couple of bad words. It was really quite a satisfying experience, and I immediately felt a sense of empowerment, as though I had rightly proclaimed judgement upon the situation regarding which I was speaking. The feeling lasted a moment before I repented of my unwholesome language. I don't like uncouth words, because they sound ignorant and crass; it's so very unladylike. Every once in a while, though, I feel the need to drop one into the center of my dialogue, almost like pounding my fist on the table. It's a punctuation, of sorts. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
I would only say a bad word to someone who wouldn't judge me. And someone who knows that I don't ever want to be a crass, unladylike person. And someone who loves me unconditionally. And someone who knows I must have endured the gravest provocation. This is a very short list of people. I think it may include Kris, Kara, and Patti. Possibly Heidi.
I punctuated a sentence with a lovely expletive 5 years ago in the hearing of my youngest son, and he's still repeating the tale with the sort of gleeful wonder that only a child can muster. I may have scarred him for life.
Now that I've confessed to my grammatical transgression, I am appropriately shamed.

I do feel better today, though the situation hasn't changed. I'm still watching Addiction run roughshod over my son.
I got Christmas letters out today, made a fine taco feast for dinner, and visited a friend in the hospital. I also exercised and took down all Christmas decorations. This was the entirety of my Wednesday accomplishments, and they were preformed with the sluggishness common to grief.  I think the worst part about having Addiction in the family is the way it causes one to function as though gravity has increased tenfold.
Actually, that's not true.
The worst part of having addiction in the family is having someone beloved lose their personality and vibrancy to the black hole of drugs. Or the constant looming threat of overdose and death.
I can't make up my mind. There are so many Worst Parts of addiction.

In other news, I purchased a set of fake eyelashes with all the budding hope of one who expects miraculous improvement in the blink of an eye.....get it? In the blink of an eye? I put them on and discovered that they do very little to distract from the rapid approach of menopause, grey hair and crow's feet. Alas. Pintrest lied.

To sum up: I am vulgar of speech, elderly in appearance, slightly depressed, but fortunate in friends. Therefore, life is not all bad. Praise God for small mercies.

Groaning too deep for words

Back in the early 1980s there was a movie made to combat abortion called "The Silent Scream." This post has nothing to do with that particular film, although I did actually see the film. In fact, I believe I used it as a resource for a speech I prepared for my seventh grade speech class. The name of the film is what I was thinking about today, just because it seemed to me that the silent screams may actually be the loudest in God's ears.

A couple weeks ago, Katrina got an app on her phone which is designed to prove the superiority of young people's hearing over those more mature among us. This particular app plays an ascending assortment of decibel ranges ( perhaps it was descending in order, it makes little difference to my story). The point is, one listens to the increasingly faint pitches until they become indecipherable. At this point, the young people in the room start exclaiming with incredulity "You Can't hear that?!" This is the point at which the young people become officially annoying, and the more mature are wishing they could hear even less than they do.

There is a point, be it somewhat circuitous.

I have been in a constant state of prayer. It's the sort of silent scream at a decibel that only God can hear, but it's intensity drains my very core. It's the sort of prayer that underpins the mundane tasks of my days, and even threads through my dreams. It's a prayer without words, because all the words have been said, and God already knows them, anyway.

How can a mother pray with greater effectiveness? Does fasting hold the key? Sheer numbers of prayer warriors...is that it? A greater sincerity? Impossible. I do not know the key. All I know is that God is Good, and Prayer is the means by which He moves.
Prayer is the only weapon I have to fight the Apollyon Addiction, and so I cannot set my weapon down.

And so, I silently scream until my head hurts. I do the laundry, entertain guests and grocery shop. I manufacture Christmas cheer and wonder at the beauty of the snow...all the while pleading that my beloved son should come to know Abundant Life. I check to see that he is breathing, as I did in his infancy. I calmly discuss the dizzying array of intoxicants pulsing through his system as I try to evaluate the immediate risks. I try to get food into his system before he leaves again. And I parent the other young people in the house...all the while praying that God would give me enough heart, and some to spare, so that none of them would go wanting because of my private ache.

I'm tired. I hate drugs. But I believe In God and I believe in prayer. Unfortunately, faith does not keep me from the very verge of panic. It does, however, keep me most assuredly on my metaphorical knees.

In which I can endure all manner of drama and tragedy, but fall victim to half an inch of precipitation

I really probably shouldn't leave you with a post which makes me sound like a closet alcoholic before disappearing for a few days.
So much goes on around here, you'd think I'd have lots to write about. I've really been out of my normal routine lately and I find that I can't always figure out when to sit and think. It's thinking time that turns into writing time for me. Plus, the blog has had a little competition from the completion of our annual Christmas letter. That is where any of my available writing time has gone. Usually I work at applying humor and vocabulary to the Christmas letter. This year, however, I have neither wit nor expendable I.Q. to inject into the seasonal missive. How entertaining can Prison visits, drug use, college life and homeschooling be? That's all second-hand excitement, anyway. It doesn't hit on the actual exciting events of my life.
Speaking of the fascinating events of my life, I endured a most unwelcome event only last night. I got into a single-car-collision. Who does that? Me, evidently.
So, in Idaho, it seems that the local transportation department may not have access to weather reports. Every year, at the first snowfall, traffic becomes a tangled mess, with pile-ups on the freeway and slide-offs on the side streets. Nary a snowplow nor a sand truck is anywhere to be seen.
Such was the case last night. Normally, I wouldn't venture out under such circumstances, but I had a speaking engagement. You can imagine my enthusiasm for the odd speaking engagement. Who likes to be the center of attention? Who adores a captive audience? Well. so.
On my way home, I quickly discovered that a lifetime of Idaho driving had not prepared me for the conditions of our iced over thoroughfares. On the freeway, I managed a 360 degree spin from the slow lane to the fast lane. When I stopped, I was rear-end-in to the concrete barrier and facing oncoming traffic.
I can only imagine that they were as surprised as I was.
After a fleeting whimper for my mommy, I realized that blocking two lanes of traffic meant that I couldn't see the third lane, nor could they see me. So, I attempted a gazillion point turn, and faced my car right-way-round in the fast lane. I hit the hazard lights on and limped forward. In truth, I had visions of dragging my bumper through the December ice as I shakily made my way along. Once all of the cars in the region had successfully passed me, I cautiously maneuvered back across four lanes and onto the nearest exit ramp, thence to the nearest parking lot to assess the damage.
Seldom have I endured such disappointment.
My bumper was mildly  displaced, and the back of my car had absorbed concrete ruble, like calcium deposits on my back side. Honestly, for all the drama of the actual event, you'd think I could produce a decent dent, at the very least.
So, I'm fine. The car is fine. My pride is slightly injured from the incident, but it's large enough to endure the pain.
Back to the Christmas letter.

The briefest of updates

Thanksgiving and the Start of the Christmas Shopping Season  have managed to distract me from both blogging and the bloggable hullabaloo in which I currently reside. Things around here have, in truth, been quite a bit better than they were the last time I checked in. We are given to astonishing bouts of Dramatic activity, punctuated by relatively peaceful interludes.
I sat down to write to you a couple of times, but only succeeded in perusing old blog posts and growing maudlin. Unfortunately, I gave up drinking in a fit of righteousness last summer, so my maudlin bits are tepid at best.
Please understand that when I say that I gave up drinking, I may not be embracing honesty wholeheartedly. What I mean is that I don't drink wine every night, nor at luncheons with the ladies. I keep to water, or the occasional iced tea. Diet Coke if I'm feeling wild. There's Coffee, of course, in the mornings. Or early afternoons. Occasionally, I bless my evening tea with a dollop of Scotch. Or my Hot Cocoa with a splash of Rumpleminz. Or the Pelligrino with just a bit of Vodka. And if someone else has opened a bottle of wine, who am I to decline? So, you can see how I may be deluding myself somewhat.
I think that I may be better served by giving up parenting.
Parenting does seem to have had some negative consequences on my general health and well-being. It's highly stressful, chronic, and very often terminal. My prognosis is cautiously hopeful, though a long-shot. I don't think there's a cure. Since it appears to be a life-long condition, I am struggling to come to terms with it.

Running away and run on sentences, but no jogging

The dog ran away. Not that I blame her, really. I was thinking about how lovely it would be to do just that, myself, except that all my stuff is here. It would just be so much easier if everyone else ran away. Here I've been discouraging that sort of thing all these years, and now I find that I may have been on the very precipice of Something Grand. Blast it all.

I should probably care more, about the dog, but I haven't the energy. Things around here have gotten a tad bit rocky lately. Living with Addiction in the house is very like having a separate entity cohabiting among the family. It's not usually like those commercials. Have you seen those commercials? You have a deranged teenager dumping out his mother's purse looking for pills, while yelling incoherently. The bewildered mamma weeps pitifully, and the father bravely tries to intervene. You've seen them. Living with Addiction is not like that. It's more like a favorite sitcom that makes you laugh and sucks you in....until you start to realize that it isn't funny anymore, not at all, but you can't really recall where it began to go awry, and by then it's too difficult to identify which parts of the plot line are normal and familiar, and which are downright twisted. It's like that.

It's foul language delivered with no apparent provocation, but with a violent intensity that immediately causes all air from the room to vanish. It's wondering if one's child truly is capable of the monumental display of willpower necessary to freeze himself to death on the driveway....then fearing that, indeed, he may prove to be successful. Then, coaxing him back into warmth for the simple expedient of going to bed myself. It's discussions that have no ground-rules, and dialogue without reason. It's longing to hold that baby boy and make everything ok, while simultaneously doing battle with him , his addiction, and myself.

I also find that I am sorely tempted to eat an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers with Strawberry jam. Do you know that amounts to a solid two days of calories? True, that. I forced myself to trudge on the treadmill this morning as a nod to my fitness goals. I've been pounding coffee the rest of the day, as a nod to my late night. I don't really know when the stifling grief-like fog settled in, but I'm finding it terribly inconvenient just now.

It's very wearying. I don't think I could run away if I wanted to. Lucky dog.

Freakin' me out

One of the wonders of my handy-dandy Fitbit is its ability to tell me how I slept. There  is some magic sleep sensor which documents my restless periods and sound sleep and maps it out for my convenience on a graph for my morning evaluation. I can't tell you how many times I've pried my weary eyes open, certain that the night's rest was entirely insufficient before consulting my Fitbit app for confirmation. Upon review, I've found that I slept soundly for a proud 8 hours and 43 minutes with nary a stir, or some such impressive number. This information always seems more relevant than my own evaluation, and my outlook for the day will immediately skyrocket. Obviously, the opposite experience can be a real problem. If  think I've slept well, yet my graph indicates otherwise, I can go from a sunny disposition to exhaustion in a single yawn. It's a modern day insanity. Who looks outside themselves to evaluate something so personal as adequate rest? Me, apparently. The good news is that both are in agreement today, and I have high expectations for my Saturday.


I'm studying Hebrews again this morning. It's a book you are in danger of hearing quite a bit about as it's the current focus of my morning quiet times. This morning I got off on a bit of a tangent (which will no doubt surprise you, given my usual penchant for staying on task) regarding the word "fear."

The book of Hebrews was originally written in Greek, or so I'm told. I can't read Greek, myself, but I have a hefty tome called Strong's Exhaustive Concordance which allows me to examine this foreign language in excruciating detail. Dissecting words can keep me merrily occupied for hours. This morning's rabbit trail had me studying the various ways to express fear. We tend to be somewhat limited in the English language, or I am, anyway. I'm afraid of mice, I'm afraid of pain, I'm afraid of financial ruin, I'm afraid of the dentist. I am afraid of the opinions of others, and I'm afraid of choosing a color I might hate for my office wall. I'm afraid of bad men in dark alleys, I'm afraid of cancer, and I'm afraid of dropping my cell phone on concrete. I employ the very same word in every one of these situations, yet I do not mean quite the same thing. I read in the bible that I am supposed to "fear God," but the concept is unclear. Am I supposed to fear Him as I fear the dentist? Or as I fear a serial killer? Or am I supposed to fear God as I fear spiders?



Many a pastor has explained this from the pulpit with a soothing reassurance that "respect" is what is needed, and nothing so unpleasant as phobia. This makes me feel warm and fuzzy, but I don't see a lot of support for it in the pages of my bible; neither do I find it substantiated in the ancient vocabulary of the authors.
The Greeks offer a word for "Fear" which indicates an unmanly timidity.
There is one which indicates caution, like "beware."
There's one that means "frightened out of your wits."
Another from which we get our English word "Tremble," which refers to the physical tremor of fear.
There's another for astonishment, a sudden startling.
....there's even more, but you get the idea. The point is that the Greek language allows for a great deal of precision when communicating an idea.
The primary word used when talking about fearing God, is the word from which we derive our English word "Phobia." It seems to have embedded in it the idea of flight. It's my response to the idea of mice, or dentistry....I want to flee. It's a feeling of aversion, apparently; a very generic and common fear. No doubt, my lack of linguistic fluency leaves something to be desired in the nuance of this concept, but I think I can glean enough to take away some benefit from the concept of fear.

The verse that started this tangent for me this morning is found in Hebrews 4:1. It says "let us fear lest....any one of you should seem to have come short of it" speaking of the rest God offers.

The first thing I learn is that I am usually afraid of entirely the wrong things. I'm not often motivated by my fear of missing out on what God has to offer to me. I'm motivated by my fear of embarrassing myself in public, or by being struck by an incompetent driver. These daily, admittedly subtle, fears motivate me in ways that my response to God does not. Phobia seems like a weird way to relate to God until I understand just how compelling various phobias are in my daily life. What if I became more motivated by the overwhelming Presence of God Himself than I am by, say, the possibility of my child self destructing. (See, that is a clear and present danger, if ever there was one.) What if the very real fear of coming short of God's Best for me today was stronger than any other circumstance which inspires some phobia in me? How differently would I live?

I know I'd be more concerned about looking for Him and following Him than I would be about how much sleep I may or may not be getting. I'd be setting the tone of my day by what my bible says rather than the graphs on my Fitbit app, that's for sure.

Another thing I learn from this is that I don't really think about God as much as I ought to. If I knew there was a mouse in this house, you know I'd think of nothing else. Nothing. I'd probably go live with Kara until Tim could produce a corpse. I think of God when I read my bible in the morning, and when I need something during the day. Mostly, though, I am thinking of my to-do list and meal planning. If I was thinking about the danger of disappointing God like I'm scared of size 12 jeans, why, that would alter my life! Why aren't I evaluating my very existence like I evaluate my fitness regimen?


If I had a third reason, it would be really eloquent. But I don't. Mostly, I think it's all about my first reason: I spend so much energy fearing the wrong things, and far too little time on the Creator of my Soul.

"The Fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, fools despise wisdom and instruction."- Proverbs 1:7

A Personal Rest

I'm sitting in my hidey-hole of an office contemplating the glorious options regarding how I might spend the hours afforded to me this day. It's Friday morning, and I've been sitting in here for over two hours listening to beautiful music on my Bluetooth speaker as I study Hebrews to my heart's content. O, Bliss!

Today is one of those rare and wonderful days without obligation. There is nowhere I have to be, and really no reason to shower.

In Hebrews chapter 4 I was studying the idea of rest, and it occurred to me that this idea is so foreign to the culture in which I live. It's so foreign to my entire way of thinking. My idea of rest is largely focused on sleep, of course. Who doesn't relish the sweet oblivion of a good afternoon nap? If I want to be rejuvenated, I generally think of ways that I can apply myself to those things that I particularly enjoy. Stuff like reading and blogging, or running in the hills, coffee with the ladies, romance, shopping. That is a list that could get pretty long, but nothing of responsibility or self restraint would be found among my favored pastimes. I don't think there is anything wrong with these things, necessarily, it's just that they are not what is meant in the biblical idea of rest.

This idea of a Sabbath rest doesn't seem to have anything to do with oblivion, vacation, or self-indulgence. According to Really Smart Greek Experts, this concept means To Stop, To Cease. It made me think of commanding a hyperactive canine to "SIT!" Sit...just stop...be. How often, even as I intend to participate in Sabbath, do I just make myself still for a day?



You know, a good stillness is only to be appreciated after some activity. I think that there is a flip side strongly implied in this idea of rest, which is a robust work ethic. If I am to be able to fully embrace and appreciate an entire day of No Activity, I really need to bust-a-move for the rest of the week. (And, yes, I realize the profound contradiction in the fact that I'm resting on a day that is not actually a "Sabbath." It's the hand I'm dealt today, so I'm going with it!) Usually I am extremely motivated to work hard; I'm all about productivity. The stillness can be much more difficult.

Even as I talk about sitting in my office and reading and studying and writing, I realize that I'm still Doing Something. I think that maybe a cessation of my normal activity is supposed to remind me that even when I'm not bustling about making the world go round, it's still in motion. I'm perhaps not as crucial to the rotation of the earth as I'd like to think. Perhaps rest, real rest, should focus my mind on the One Who really is getting the business of life taken care of. If I can learn to trust His Activity a little more, perhaps I won't be so frantic about my own. Perhaps inactivity can restructure my perspective enough so that my productivity is enhanced by an assurance that it is His Work, and not mine that really matters.

Successful Momming. Or Not.

I'm in my Fun Sized office doing a little avoidance work. I'm avoiding the whole parenting thing.

Today has been one of my more hormonal days, where I basically despaired of ever having a hand in authentic, successful parenting. There I was, visiting my eldest at the Prison, talking about the mostly absent son who-just-got-out-of-jail, after scolding the responsibility-avoiding youngest son regarding home school....it occurred to me that my overall parenting day was perhaps just less than stellar. 

My daughter was in good standing, largely because she'd been gone all day, presumably at college.

It's not that I feel myself to be a failure as a parent, not exactly. More that I feel my efforts to be nearly entirely wasted. What is the point? Kids seem like they are going to do their own thing, and about the best I can hope to accomplish is the imparting of bits of wisdom which are destined to fall on deaf ears. It's a lot like flailing about with no result.

So much of the conundrum for me is the ongoing dichotomy of interacting with one child who skips out on his chores, and another who does drugs. How does one parent these situations simultaneously? How about scolding the one who slept half the fricking day while on my way out the door to visit one at the prison?  To have one situation that is so normally irritating, and one that is so outside the bounds of normalcy...and to hold both in my head at the same time is terribly unsettling. It's too much variety in futile circumstances. 

I know how to think about something tragic, like a funeral. It's sad and solemn. Or a baby shower, and all the attendant joy. But to hold both in tandem stretches my mind to feats of acrobatics for which I am entirely ill-equipped. That's sort of what it's like.

I'm tired, is the thing. Tired of trying so hard to impact these young people. Tired of making my life all about all these ungrateful urchins. It's a little temper tantrum, is what it is. 

There is some mention of complaining in Scripture, if I recall my bible correctly. Something about God having little to no tolerance for His children when they grumble and murmur. When the nation of Israel was wandering in the wilderness, they had some pretty valid issues to complain about wouldn't you say? Yet, the Divine Scolding for discontent was always so much harsher than any response God meted out for timid faith or fear. I gather from this that there is something particularly offensive to God about my temper tantrums. Isn't that largely what a little fit amounts to? Complaining? I don't like my lot....IT ISN'T FAIR. How come everybody else gets kids who go to college and get married and have grand babies for their moms? And yet...

If God is Good, and I am convinced that He is, then His admonition to give Thanks in everything is a mandate which I have already been fully equipped to obey. I do not like my kids some days....some years, actually. But I know something about this God I serve. He is Absolutely Good, and He is working, even when I can't see it. He has told me that I have no cause to complain, but rather to live in perpetual Gratitude.

I choose Gratitude. Perhaps this is a fitting theme, given that Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching. Will you join me in seeking to thrive in an overwhelming attitude of thanks and appreciation of all that God is doing both in and around us?

My children, all four of them, are gifts to me from God. I don't need to like the choices they are making, nor the way they inspire me to feel, in order to accept the blessing God says they are to me. I can thank God that He is at work in their lives and that I get a front row seat to watch a miracle unfold. I don't know what He may be doing in them, but it's pretty clear that He is doing something in me. I can be thankful for that, too.

Sometimes I think it's so significant to recognize how hard things are so that obedience can be all the sweeter. I'm glad we've had this little talk.