I can now add to my resume that I frosted a cake for the first lady of a state. The governor’s mansion’s chef, my buddy Holly, has been having increasing difficulty with her torn rotator and bicep. The motions required for spreading frosting required one of her more painful positions. I was honored to be called to her rescue. In the bargain, I got to hang out in the kitchen while the new governor and his wife ate their supper. They were delightfully friendly to me. It’s nice meeting public people in their private worlds.
I’m now waiting for Holly’s shoulder to be rebuilt. Because of her pain, her surgery was rescheduled for an earlier date than originally anticipated. This may make my chauffeur services unnecessary as she goes to Florida to accept her recently deceased husband’s industry award for his work in establishing safety standards for the residential window cleaning industry. Oh well, at least I’ll still head away from snow country, back to Louisiana, until the spring thaw in Coker Creek.
My major worry, at this point, is that Holly’s supposed to do daily post-surgery exercises to regain her range of motion. This is the second time that Holly is having her rotator cuff repaired, and she has told me how brutally painful the exercises are. She really may need a drill sergeant, and I’ve been informed by her that I’m an enabler. My daughter once told me that I want my children to grow, but don’t want them to go through the pain of growth. What’s a mother (or friend) to do?
Maybe I’ll call our Coker Creek friend Charlie for tips on being a “physical terrorist” as he was the impetus for our friend Jim actually exercising his new knee. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Impatient With Isolation
As teenagers, we're told to control ourselves,
To stifle it and to suck it up.
We put our emotions in a closet
To let out when the big crises erupt.
The artistic types use their artistry;
The athletes push them into muscles.
This leaves the mere mortals among us
All this emotion with which to struggle.
We close our eyes and our hearts
Until sex or drugs intervene;
Thinking we are our most grown up
When our passions aren't seen.
It's okay to show our inner selves
If we are drunk with lust or intoxication;
But the feelings we show to each other
Are often, for sin, mistaken.
One who swears to hold your heart comes along
You flirt, then jump into the middle.
You don't know the tidal wave that will emerge
Once, with the barriers, you've fiddled.
Each of the couple crawls back to their own closet;
When they couldn't survive on each other alone.
They work, they talk, and play with others,
And, if they're lucky, bring some love back home.
But what of the starving that happens to women
Left alone with their pasts and their babes?
From whom do they draw their uplifting,
When their mate's only emotion is rage?
And what of the many crying mothers who
Lose their husbands to war and pursuit of money?
From whom do they draw needed emotion
When they have lost their relationship's closet key?
Once you have a baby, I have a hole in your heart,
A path for your passion the whole world to see.
It's different than any you've felt before;
It's a wound from which you'll never be free.
It's best to find friends, say the older folks,
But what about the baby at your breast?
She is fussy no matter how much you mother,
And stimulation gives her more unrest.
The old ladies say you're doing it wrong,
As your man goes further away;
He thought that this marriage stuff
Was going to offer more chances to play.
You feel the pain of other mother/wives,
As their families have endless need.
Their mates, too, are working night and day,
As your hearts continue to bleed.
Who comes to rock the babies
Without giving us more pain?
Who can possibly be with us
Until we're strong again?
Who will hold our men for us,
And send them back still chaste?
Who can give so much of themselves
Without falling out of grace?
We're told to read our scriptures,
And bow our heads in prayer;
That, in this way, we'll feel
How much our God still cares.
But if the body human is
Still attached to Heaven,
Aren't each one of us put on earth
Each other's pain to leaven?
We are dying for lack of loving touch
That is freely, chastely given.
The children of our loins are,
Like we, to each other driven.
Are our churches and our homes
Giving them instruction by our actions,
How to give of ourselves and our gifts,
How to positively channel our passions?
And what about compassion
For the mistakes of others?
Are we teaching them to gently
Confront our sisters and brothers?
Or are we continuing
To hide in our own closets
Hoping that time alone
Will help us to forget?
Are we sitting with each other
Sharing the depths of our hearts?
Or are we still isolated
When the crises start?
To stifle it and to suck it up.
We put our emotions in a closet
To let out when the big crises erupt.
The artistic types use their artistry;
The athletes push them into muscles.
This leaves the mere mortals among us
All this emotion with which to struggle.
We close our eyes and our hearts
Until sex or drugs intervene;
Thinking we are our most grown up
When our passions aren't seen.
It's okay to show our inner selves
If we are drunk with lust or intoxication;
But the feelings we show to each other
Are often, for sin, mistaken.
One who swears to hold your heart comes along
You flirt, then jump into the middle.
You don't know the tidal wave that will emerge
Once, with the barriers, you've fiddled.
Each of the couple crawls back to their own closet;
When they couldn't survive on each other alone.
They work, they talk, and play with others,
And, if they're lucky, bring some love back home.
But what of the starving that happens to women
Left alone with their pasts and their babes?
From whom do they draw their uplifting,
When their mate's only emotion is rage?
And what of the many crying mothers who
Lose their husbands to war and pursuit of money?
From whom do they draw needed emotion
When they have lost their relationship's closet key?
Once you have a baby, I have a hole in your heart,
A path for your passion the whole world to see.
It's different than any you've felt before;
It's a wound from which you'll never be free.
It's best to find friends, say the older folks,
But what about the baby at your breast?
She is fussy no matter how much you mother,
And stimulation gives her more unrest.
The old ladies say you're doing it wrong,
As your man goes further away;
He thought that this marriage stuff
Was going to offer more chances to play.
You feel the pain of other mother/wives,
As their families have endless need.
Their mates, too, are working night and day,
As your hearts continue to bleed.
Who comes to rock the babies
Without giving us more pain?
Who can possibly be with us
Until we're strong again?
Who will hold our men for us,
And send them back still chaste?
Who can give so much of themselves
Without falling out of grace?
We're told to read our scriptures,
And bow our heads in prayer;
That, in this way, we'll feel
How much our God still cares.
But if the body human is
Still attached to Heaven,
Aren't each one of us put on earth
Each other's pain to leaven?
We are dying for lack of loving touch
That is freely, chastely given.
The children of our loins are,
Like we, to each other driven.
Are our churches and our homes
Giving them instruction by our actions,
How to give of ourselves and our gifts,
How to positively channel our passions?
And what about compassion
For the mistakes of others?
Are we teaching them to gently
Confront our sisters and brothers?
Or are we continuing
To hide in our own closets
Hoping that time alone
Will help us to forget?
Are we sitting with each other
Sharing the depths of our hearts?
Or are we still isolated
When the crises start?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Valuing Our Veterans
I'm sitting in the canteen at the Atlanta VA hospital, waiting on my Richard to get his medications refilled. As I walked down the halls, I felt that I should genuflect or something as the many men and women who offered their lives up for my freedom passed me. I was overwhelmed with the sense that I should be stopping each of them and thanking them for their sacrifices made for a bunch of strangers.
I've been both gratified and horrified by what I know about the way we treat our military, once we finish using them to fight our bloody wars. Richard became disabled long after the end of his service as a medical officer in Vietnam.
We were lucky to be eligible for the program that gave all former military personnel who had served during wartime the opportunity to sign up for medication benefits.
Thirty thousand dollars in medications to keep Richard's new heart from rejection was going to be quite a burden on his greatly reduced income. It was worth the red tape to get him included, and we were able to drop his COBRA medical insurance rather than have his whole office lose their coverage because of the cost of covering him. I was happy that his service during the war in Vietnam was going to give him the benefit of having done the right thing, something not to be taken for granted while we inhabit this earth.
Since this fortuitous event in our lives, I've hung my head in shame more than once over the injustices done to many of our veterans and their families. A friend, who was raising three children while her pilot husband flew hospital planes in Vietnam, informed me that while she was waiting on his return, alone with her children, she received death threats from people accusing her husband of being a "baby killer."
Recently, a good friend with a minimal retirement income was diagnosed with a type of leukemia for which there are good treatments available. Knowing that this friend had served two tours of duty as a medic in Vietnam, we were sure that he would have no problem qualifying for his well-deserved prescription benefits. This turned out not to be the case. The enrollment for this program was closed shortly after Richard was successfully entered into it. It's bad enough that our friend is now faced with an impossible situation, as his medications cost eighty thousand dollars a year. What makes it even worse is that he had a service-related back injury for which he has consistently been denied benefits. It seems that the service "lost" his records.
The World War II veterans have been lauded as "the greatest generation", and I'm proud of Richard and his fellow World War II Museum volunteers for their efforts in honoring them. But the veterans of the wars we didn't win, Korea and Vietnam, are still experiencing disrespect and neglect. I hope we will live long enough to see this changed, and not simply by inscriptions on war memorials.
I've been both gratified and horrified by what I know about the way we treat our military, once we finish using them to fight our bloody wars. Richard became disabled long after the end of his service as a medical officer in Vietnam.
We were lucky to be eligible for the program that gave all former military personnel who had served during wartime the opportunity to sign up for medication benefits.
Thirty thousand dollars in medications to keep Richard's new heart from rejection was going to be quite a burden on his greatly reduced income. It was worth the red tape to get him included, and we were able to drop his COBRA medical insurance rather than have his whole office lose their coverage because of the cost of covering him. I was happy that his service during the war in Vietnam was going to give him the benefit of having done the right thing, something not to be taken for granted while we inhabit this earth.
Since this fortuitous event in our lives, I've hung my head in shame more than once over the injustices done to many of our veterans and their families. A friend, who was raising three children while her pilot husband flew hospital planes in Vietnam, informed me that while she was waiting on his return, alone with her children, she received death threats from people accusing her husband of being a "baby killer."
Recently, a good friend with a minimal retirement income was diagnosed with a type of leukemia for which there are good treatments available. Knowing that this friend had served two tours of duty as a medic in Vietnam, we were sure that he would have no problem qualifying for his well-deserved prescription benefits. This turned out not to be the case. The enrollment for this program was closed shortly after Richard was successfully entered into it. It's bad enough that our friend is now faced with an impossible situation, as his medications cost eighty thousand dollars a year. What makes it even worse is that he had a service-related back injury for which he has consistently been denied benefits. It seems that the service "lost" his records.
The World War II veterans have been lauded as "the greatest generation", and I'm proud of Richard and his fellow World War II Museum volunteers for their efforts in honoring them. But the veterans of the wars we didn't win, Korea and Vietnam, are still experiencing disrespect and neglect. I hope we will live long enough to see this changed, and not simply by inscriptions on war memorials.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Exit Earth Mother
Now I've been told that I'm an enabler, which I'm sure is true.
I like to get people to like me by doing what they ask me to do.
Some call me the fairy godmother, others the wicked witch;
It depends on their perspective, and how I scratch their itch.
I don't build up to a crescendo; I'm here and then I'm gone;
The changes I leave in my wake leave some feeling quite forlorn.
So, I've decided that a little of me time goes a very long way
I usually get into trouble when I'm tempted to stay.
I'm like a walking meth lab, and apparently as dangerous
Explosions happen all around me and I cannot hear the fuss.
Until the toxic waste of these bombs chases all away,
And I'm left with nobody with whom I can play.
So I hide in my room because I don't want anyone hurt,
But when bullies enter the playground, my passions start to perk.
I usually come out flailing to protect the weak
And when the fighting's over, I'm told to take a seat.
The disciplinarians see me as big and strong;
The bullies act so meek, it looks like I am wrong.
But all I want is to make sure that the babies aren't harmed
I didn't know that I could cause such wounds without being armed.
I guess there is a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Whether spoken or written, it seems the mightiest weapons are words.
I am trying to sit back and stop fighting the battles of others;
I have to keep reminding myself I am not the whole earth's mother.
I like to get people to like me by doing what they ask me to do.
Some call me the fairy godmother, others the wicked witch;
It depends on their perspective, and how I scratch their itch.
I don't build up to a crescendo; I'm here and then I'm gone;
The changes I leave in my wake leave some feeling quite forlorn.
So, I've decided that a little of me time goes a very long way
I usually get into trouble when I'm tempted to stay.
I'm like a walking meth lab, and apparently as dangerous
Explosions happen all around me and I cannot hear the fuss.
Until the toxic waste of these bombs chases all away,
And I'm left with nobody with whom I can play.
So I hide in my room because I don't want anyone hurt,
But when bullies enter the playground, my passions start to perk.
I usually come out flailing to protect the weak
And when the fighting's over, I'm told to take a seat.
The disciplinarians see me as big and strong;
The bullies act so meek, it looks like I am wrong.
But all I want is to make sure that the babies aren't harmed
I didn't know that I could cause such wounds without being armed.
I guess there is a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Whether spoken or written, it seems the mightiest weapons are words.
I am trying to sit back and stop fighting the battles of others;
I have to keep reminding myself I am not the whole earth's mother.
Healing of the Holy Spirit
Today was Youth Sunday at my daughter's family's church. This meant that the pre-teen and teen-age members of the congregation played all the parts in the service. There were songs written and played by the kids. The sermon expertly delivered by one of the girls that I have known for many years was a sterling example of the type of warm, personal, human testimony that were hallmarks of the sermons given by the former pastor that I heard yesterday on the subject of evangelism.
My first grandchild read the gospel with passion and concise diction, showing a great deal of stage presence. When she stood with the youth and sang, I wept copious tears flashing back to her early days in this same church, with these same families, my beautiful little angel granddaughter belting out her joy in Jesus like a baby Ethel Merman. Thankfully, she still shone as brightly with the glory of her God.
My pre-teen granddaughter had the role of the seemingly self-appointed encourager-in-charge of the various other participants in the program. (I like to believe that she got some of her cheer leading ability from her Granny.)Although she spends much time unsuccessfully attempting to hide her light under a bushel basket, she was masterful on the piano as the congregation "nailed" their burdens onto the cross of Christ. I asked my daughter to bring up my burden of multi-generational wounds, something my mother died praying for.
I was struck by the continuity in the liturgy; it all centered on the forgiving nature of God. The young men who gave the children's sermon had a wonderful way of explaining the importance of not burdening ourselves with shame over our mistakes. What great hope and joy these children exhibited! And what a wonderful legacy of their former pastor's evangelical abilities, which always put me in mind of what I've been taught about the ministry of Jesus.
Something that also struck me, both while I heard the former pastor and as I reveled in the beauty of the next generation's faith, was the lack of focus on confessing our sins against one another to each other and attempting to make amends. I left both gatherings with a heavy heart knowing how much pain is passed on from generation to generation because we don't believe that making the world right entails making amends for our transgressions to the people we have persecuted. And the sins of the parents continue to compound with each non-repentant generation.
My prayer several times each day is, "Holy Spirit, heal our hearts and heads. Oh, and please, Holy Spirit, take my tongue."
My first grandchild read the gospel with passion and concise diction, showing a great deal of stage presence. When she stood with the youth and sang, I wept copious tears flashing back to her early days in this same church, with these same families, my beautiful little angel granddaughter belting out her joy in Jesus like a baby Ethel Merman. Thankfully, she still shone as brightly with the glory of her God.
My pre-teen granddaughter had the role of the seemingly self-appointed encourager-in-charge of the various other participants in the program. (I like to believe that she got some of her cheer leading ability from her Granny.)Although she spends much time unsuccessfully attempting to hide her light under a bushel basket, she was masterful on the piano as the congregation "nailed" their burdens onto the cross of Christ. I asked my daughter to bring up my burden of multi-generational wounds, something my mother died praying for.
I was struck by the continuity in the liturgy; it all centered on the forgiving nature of God. The young men who gave the children's sermon had a wonderful way of explaining the importance of not burdening ourselves with shame over our mistakes. What great hope and joy these children exhibited! And what a wonderful legacy of their former pastor's evangelical abilities, which always put me in mind of what I've been taught about the ministry of Jesus.
Something that also struck me, both while I heard the former pastor and as I reveled in the beauty of the next generation's faith, was the lack of focus on confessing our sins against one another to each other and attempting to make amends. I left both gatherings with a heavy heart knowing how much pain is passed on from generation to generation because we don't believe that making the world right entails making amends for our transgressions to the people we have persecuted. And the sins of the parents continue to compound with each non-repentant generation.
My prayer several times each day is, "Holy Spirit, heal our hearts and heads. Oh, and please, Holy Spirit, take my tongue."
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Peace and the Paraclete
I happen to be a jump-for-joy type;
This isn't to everyone's taste.
Some people require a more peaceful approach;
They get tired of my version of grace.
My daughter calls it "buzzing";
My teachers thought me quite bad.
My grandmothers and mom thought me awful,
And said I was just like my dad.
It was actually my mother who
Had the attention span of a flea.
I'm afraid that she passed her
Hummingbird ways down to me.
I love to be with peaceful people,
But sometimes I just bust a gut,
Trying to hold in my passion
For staying out of a rut.
Rituals make my stomach feel jumpy,
My son said it quite well.
There are many well-churched people
Who think we're both on a path to hell.
I'm trying really hard to stay away
From those who I make itch,
But I sometimes have the feeling that
It's the Holy Spirit making me twitch.
This isn't to everyone's taste.
Some people require a more peaceful approach;
They get tired of my version of grace.
My daughter calls it "buzzing";
My teachers thought me quite bad.
My grandmothers and mom thought me awful,
And said I was just like my dad.
It was actually my mother who
Had the attention span of a flea.
I'm afraid that she passed her
Hummingbird ways down to me.
I love to be with peaceful people,
But sometimes I just bust a gut,
Trying to hold in my passion
For staying out of a rut.
Rituals make my stomach feel jumpy,
My son said it quite well.
There are many well-churched people
Who think we're both on a path to hell.
I'm trying really hard to stay away
From those who I make itch,
But I sometimes have the feeling that
It's the Holy Spirit making me twitch.
Passion and Persuasion
I went with my daughter to hear a beloved former pastor speak on the subject of evangelism. It seems that many churches believe this is a teachable skill. I'm not sure that evangelism is possible without a personal passion burning so brightly that people are drawn to the flame. Those that walk the walk toward joyful Holiness will have others asking to hear the talk.
When Richard and I were in Costa Rica many years ago, the praying mantises would be so drawn to the candlelight on our dinner table that they would reach for it and burn their little "hands". When my grandson was about two years old, he spied the sun setting over the water, jumped off the couch, and as he was drawn like in a trance toward the sight, he said, "Granny, look at the big orange ball. Can I touch it?". With these words, he put out his adorable little fingers with full confidence that he could touch the sun. All life is drawn to the light.
Some people just glow with their glory in God, their joy in Jesus, their happiness in the Holy Spirit, their peace in The Paraclete. How can others resist this power of persuasion? The most blessed with the light are the most needed to walk into the valley of darkness to retrieve the lost. This former pastor seems to be one of these people.
I have had several of my most cherished people facing cancer in the last year. They were at peace while I was dying inside. When I asked how they could be at such a peaceful place in the face of death, they immediately and repeatedly proclaimed that their peace came from their faith in the lessons taught by Jesus. I have faith, but I'm still dying inside at the thought of losing them.
I guess I wouldn't worry so much about missing the faces, voices, hugs, smiles, and smells of my loved ones if I was the one going to God. And I sure hate knowing that they'll be so happy that they'll never miss me as a mere mortal. I am, however, thrilled that they're not adding their own fear to my mourning, and it all comes from a belief in the promise of the Eternal Spirit of Wholeness.
There's an old church song taught to children, "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..." Live it and they will come, and when they ask how you can be so joyful even in the face of death, be prepared with an answer straight from your heart about the source of your joy.
When Richard and I were in Costa Rica many years ago, the praying mantises would be so drawn to the candlelight on our dinner table that they would reach for it and burn their little "hands". When my grandson was about two years old, he spied the sun setting over the water, jumped off the couch, and as he was drawn like in a trance toward the sight, he said, "Granny, look at the big orange ball. Can I touch it?". With these words, he put out his adorable little fingers with full confidence that he could touch the sun. All life is drawn to the light.
Some people just glow with their glory in God, their joy in Jesus, their happiness in the Holy Spirit, their peace in The Paraclete. How can others resist this power of persuasion? The most blessed with the light are the most needed to walk into the valley of darkness to retrieve the lost. This former pastor seems to be one of these people.
I have had several of my most cherished people facing cancer in the last year. They were at peace while I was dying inside. When I asked how they could be at such a peaceful place in the face of death, they immediately and repeatedly proclaimed that their peace came from their faith in the lessons taught by Jesus. I have faith, but I'm still dying inside at the thought of losing them.
I guess I wouldn't worry so much about missing the faces, voices, hugs, smiles, and smells of my loved ones if I was the one going to God. And I sure hate knowing that they'll be so happy that they'll never miss me as a mere mortal. I am, however, thrilled that they're not adding their own fear to my mourning, and it all comes from a belief in the promise of the Eternal Spirit of Wholeness.
There's an old church song taught to children, "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..." Live it and they will come, and when they ask how you can be so joyful even in the face of death, be prepared with an answer straight from your heart about the source of your joy.
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