We have two cats, and last night I came to an interesting conclusion about them. We have a DayCat, and a NightCat.
Both cats are very protective of me, which I am amused by. The one time in my grown-up life that I actually passed out (food poisoning--you don't want to know), I woke up to find both cats sitting at my head, applying wet little kisses to my face. And last month, I was sitting in the dining room when I saw something out of the corner of my eye that was moving, so I turned my head to look, and there was a spider at the end of a thread of web right in front of my nose. Naturally I gave a yelp and batted it away. Then I looked down, and there were both cats, who had not been there the second before, with expressions of alarm and anxiety in their eyes. I could almost hear them saying "Mom! Mom? Are you alright? Mom!".
Tiger is a skinny little black tiger cat. In summer he has allergies that give him eczema and make a lot of his fur disappear, especially off of his legs, flanks, and rear end. He gets to looking pretty pathetic, like a BarenakedCat. But in winter it all grows back, and his fur gets thick and lush and soft. He appears to gain five pounds in winter, but it's all hair. Tiger still really feels the cold though, and if I'm sitting down once the chilly weather comes, he's in my lap. I love it. He gets so desperate for warmth that he turns himself into all sorts of interesting shapes in order to take advantage of whatever amount of lap is available. And I swear this is a weight-adjustable cat, because he makes himself heavy as a cannonball to weigh me down so I don't get up and lose my lap. Tiger is a real sweetie. But once I go up to bed, the cuddle ends. He'll jump up and curl into a ball on the bed, but he makes sure to do it just out of my reach. At some point, probably when Stu comes up to bed, he gets down and goes to find some corner of furniture to sleep in for the rest of the night. No human contact once we settle down for the night--although I have no idea why not. Tiger, plainly, is DayCat.
Jenny, on the other hand, is a large meatloaf of a cat, a beautiful mostly-white calico. Jenny is vocal. She has a loud voice and she's not afraid to use it, especially when I am doing something that involves the dishwasher. It's not clear why, but apparently Jen sees the dishwasher as evil and dangerous, and she warns me with loud cries if I have my hands in there. Silly cat. She is fat and furry all year round, and does not seem bothered by winter except at night. During the day, she really doesn't want human touch, or at least not much. Sometimes she can't stand it and comes looking for attention, but one stroke of my hand and she moves away again, to sit and look at me and say incomprehensible cat things in her loud voice. There are only two times when Jenny permits affection. One is when I am falling asleep. Once I get to bed, Jenny hops up and walks up me--she doesn't walk on the surface of the bed, just on me, and by golly is she heavy. She proceeds all the way up to my pillow, where she wraps herself around my head, settles down, and begins to purr with an engine that can surely be heard down the street. When my alarm goes off in the morning Jenny thumps off the bed, and once I am out of the shower she puts herself squarely under my feet. I give her a good scratching, and hear that grand engine again, and then that's it. No more physical touch for her, and absolutely no more purring for the rest of the day--until I go to bed again that night. Jenny is NightCat.
I was thinking about this last night, and thinking what a shame it was that Tiger would not cuddle up with us at night in bed, because that's the coldest part of any day, and if he just tried it once he'd be hooked, and warm and happy. And why won't Jenny sit in laps, or at least beside laps, during the day? Why does she only allow herself happiness when she thinks I am asleep and won't notice it? I'll never know why, but my kitties have divided up the days into two clearly demarcated and opposing shifts. I have a cat for day usage, and a cat for night usage, but never two lovey-cats at once. DayCat and NightCat. Their ways are mysterious, indeed.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Thursday, December 25, 2008
O! Wonderful Night
Yesterday we all went off to the Christmas Eve service at our church. It was...interesting. The written program proclaimed it to be a German Christmas, and so it was. There were two strapping and cheerful gentlemen in lederhosen, who regaled us with polkas at odd moments, playing upon their accordion and tuba. I seriously wanted to go polka-ing up and down the aisle, but had no partner. My reticent British-ancestry husband was not willing. Too bad! There was a large clan who got up and sang Stille Nacht, and the evening's introduction was given in German. The really amazing thing is that I found myself understanding what she was saying, and I don't speak German. At least, I don't think I do. I could be wrong.
The highlight, however, came while the aforementioned large clan was singing "O Tannenbaum". They sang it in German first, then a verse in English, and then polished it off in German again. But whichever language you sing it in, every line begins with the word "O". Kevin sat beside me, and every time they sang the word "O", so did he. He doesn't know any of the other words though, so that's the ONLY word he sang. With every line, this happy bass voice beside me chimed in on the "O" and then hummed along until it came up again. It's a good thing that Emily and Yoko were sitting down, because they laughed so hard they would have fallen down otherwise. I had the "O" chorus on the right, and the helpless gigglers on the left. Surrounded by lunacy, that was me.
There is a Christmas song I've heard on the radio a few times about having a Christmas to remember, but I just roll my eyes at it. The ones I really remember are the ones that were really and truly horrible in some way. But thanks to the Germans, this year might be reversing the trend. My German Christmas Eve will be sticking with me for a while. May you and yours have a Christmas to remember also, and I mean that in a GOOD way!
Love, Spud.
The highlight, however, came while the aforementioned large clan was singing "O Tannenbaum". They sang it in German first, then a verse in English, and then polished it off in German again. But whichever language you sing it in, every line begins with the word "O". Kevin sat beside me, and every time they sang the word "O", so did he. He doesn't know any of the other words though, so that's the ONLY word he sang. With every line, this happy bass voice beside me chimed in on the "O" and then hummed along until it came up again. It's a good thing that Emily and Yoko were sitting down, because they laughed so hard they would have fallen down otherwise. I had the "O" chorus on the right, and the helpless gigglers on the left. Surrounded by lunacy, that was me.
There is a Christmas song I've heard on the radio a few times about having a Christmas to remember, but I just roll my eyes at it. The ones I really remember are the ones that were really and truly horrible in some way. But thanks to the Germans, this year might be reversing the trend. My German Christmas Eve will be sticking with me for a while. May you and yours have a Christmas to remember also, and I mean that in a GOOD way!
Love, Spud.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
About Christmas
Think of your current age. Now add 33 to it. Now imagine that you were suddenly shipped off to Mugabe's Zimbabwe, or a refugee camp in Somalia, and you couldn't get back until you reached that age 33 years in the future. It's a fearsome prospect, as those are truly dreadful places. 33 years of danger, filth, suffering of every kind, and the utter despair of knowing that you weren't going to get away from it any time soon. How horrible. You'd almost wish you could contract something fatal. But you can't.
We really aren't able to imagine heaven, never having seen anything like it to compare it to, but there are some details available for us. For one thing, because it's where God has his throne, we know it's absolutely perfect, just because He's there and He wouldn't have it any other way. It's full of light, and glory, and creatures beyond even the imagination of Spielberg. Every tear will be wiped away, provided you can find anything to mourn, and there is no need of money. We are told to come buy milk and wine without cost, and gold is so ordinary it's used to make paving stones. For those of us in a nation diving headfirst into financial catastrophe, that sounds pretty good! Every need will be met. Sin will be gone, and we'll be surprised, once it's no longer around, just how steeped in it we were without even recognizing most of it. The broken, fallen world will be healed, and disease and distress and dysfunction will be things of the past. But the best part is that God and Jesus and all His people will be home there--together forever. It's like a fairy tale, except better, because it's real.
The most miraculous thing about the account of the first Christmas is the back-story which we generally fail to consider. Jesus was in heaven--it was His rightful home, and He agreed, as per the plan from ages past, to leave it for those 33 years. He left perfection, power, and glory, and voluntarily came down here to experience the life that all of us pathetic humans live. Jesus willingly "emptied Himself" of His Godly attributes--no more omniscience, omnipresence, or the other incomprehensible omnis. God became, in other words, one of us.
Jesus left paradise and, after what may have been the first recorded case of artificial insemination, entered this mortal coil as an infant. He went through the trauma of birth. He cried, He pooped, He may even (poor Mary!) have had colic. He probably experienced all the usual childhood ailments, growing pains, and skinned knees. After infinity past in the perfection of heaven, Jesus endured this place full of thorns, droughts, famines, splinters, and rocks in the fields, fleas, flatulence, smelly feet, and zits. What a horror show this is, this cesspool of humanity.
It begs the question: why would God come to earth under those conditions? The answer is provided by Jesus Himself--because He loves us. Which also leads to the next logical question: why does He love us? We're hopelessly screwed up, every last one of us. But love us God does, for His own doubtlessly good reasons, even though it makes no sense at all to us. He loves us with an enduring, consistent, and undeserved love that is beyond our ability to understand, but not, with His help, beyond our ability to accept. And apparently the best way to get us out of this mess was to become a human, so God did.
And human He was. Jesus was accused of being a glutton and a wine-bibber. He hung out with the scum of society and His own clueless band of homeys. We know He wept, and I'll betcha He laughed. He was a man of deep compassion and inevitable truthfulness, and folks of every station were irresistibly attracted to Him, although of course far more of them were not. In one form or another, He went through every disaster we do, or at least its first century equivalent, but unlike us, he did it without sinning against God or Man. Jesus had to be human. Only then could He plumb the depths of the human experience, and only then could He rightly represent us in both life and death. Only then could He die.
Every December the television schedule is crowded with holiday specials, each of them claiming to be about someone who discovers the True Meaning of Christmas. Frankly, they make me want to gag. They're all very good entertainment, and full of problematic events where people learn lessons about sharing and sacrificing, that yes there really is a Santa Claus, the most important thing in life is love, and miracles happen at the rate of about one every thirty minutes. We all get melty and sentimental. This is not a bad thing. It's just incorrect.
Because the True Meaning of Christmas...is Easter. The baby we adore on Christmas went to His death 33 years later, and He did it for us. He did it knowing the torture and physical agony that was involved, because He knew it was the only way to restore His beloved human race to Himself. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was nauseatingly ugly--as far from a Christmas card as you can get. But it was all for us, and if we believe that Jesus was who He said He was and ask for His death to pay for our sins, then they are wiped away. Our record is clean, and we get to experience heaven after we too go through death. Just because He loves us. He shall see the results of His agony, and be satisfied.
And do you know what I think? I think that calls for a party!!! Ring bells! Sing songs! Give presents! Give them to those we know and love, and to those we will never even meet, through wonderful agencies like World Relief and Compassion and Samaritan's Purse. They will be happy to turn your hard-earned dollars into goats, chickens, seeds, and other life-giving gifts, to make things just a little bit (or maybe a big bit) easier for some other sufferer in the world. Joy to the world! Because God loves us, and wants us, and did what it took to bring us to Himself. Hallelujah.
Love, Spud.
We really aren't able to imagine heaven, never having seen anything like it to compare it to, but there are some details available for us. For one thing, because it's where God has his throne, we know it's absolutely perfect, just because He's there and He wouldn't have it any other way. It's full of light, and glory, and creatures beyond even the imagination of Spielberg. Every tear will be wiped away, provided you can find anything to mourn, and there is no need of money. We are told to come buy milk and wine without cost, and gold is so ordinary it's used to make paving stones. For those of us in a nation diving headfirst into financial catastrophe, that sounds pretty good! Every need will be met. Sin will be gone, and we'll be surprised, once it's no longer around, just how steeped in it we were without even recognizing most of it. The broken, fallen world will be healed, and disease and distress and dysfunction will be things of the past. But the best part is that God and Jesus and all His people will be home there--together forever. It's like a fairy tale, except better, because it's real.
The most miraculous thing about the account of the first Christmas is the back-story which we generally fail to consider. Jesus was in heaven--it was His rightful home, and He agreed, as per the plan from ages past, to leave it for those 33 years. He left perfection, power, and glory, and voluntarily came down here to experience the life that all of us pathetic humans live. Jesus willingly "emptied Himself" of His Godly attributes--no more omniscience, omnipresence, or the other incomprehensible omnis. God became, in other words, one of us.
Jesus left paradise and, after what may have been the first recorded case of artificial insemination, entered this mortal coil as an infant. He went through the trauma of birth. He cried, He pooped, He may even (poor Mary!) have had colic. He probably experienced all the usual childhood ailments, growing pains, and skinned knees. After infinity past in the perfection of heaven, Jesus endured this place full of thorns, droughts, famines, splinters, and rocks in the fields, fleas, flatulence, smelly feet, and zits. What a horror show this is, this cesspool of humanity.
It begs the question: why would God come to earth under those conditions? The answer is provided by Jesus Himself--because He loves us. Which also leads to the next logical question: why does He love us? We're hopelessly screwed up, every last one of us. But love us God does, for His own doubtlessly good reasons, even though it makes no sense at all to us. He loves us with an enduring, consistent, and undeserved love that is beyond our ability to understand, but not, with His help, beyond our ability to accept. And apparently the best way to get us out of this mess was to become a human, so God did.
And human He was. Jesus was accused of being a glutton and a wine-bibber. He hung out with the scum of society and His own clueless band of homeys. We know He wept, and I'll betcha He laughed. He was a man of deep compassion and inevitable truthfulness, and folks of every station were irresistibly attracted to Him, although of course far more of them were not. In one form or another, He went through every disaster we do, or at least its first century equivalent, but unlike us, he did it without sinning against God or Man. Jesus had to be human. Only then could He plumb the depths of the human experience, and only then could He rightly represent us in both life and death. Only then could He die.
Every December the television schedule is crowded with holiday specials, each of them claiming to be about someone who discovers the True Meaning of Christmas. Frankly, they make me want to gag. They're all very good entertainment, and full of problematic events where people learn lessons about sharing and sacrificing, that yes there really is a Santa Claus, the most important thing in life is love, and miracles happen at the rate of about one every thirty minutes. We all get melty and sentimental. This is not a bad thing. It's just incorrect.
Because the True Meaning of Christmas...is Easter. The baby we adore on Christmas went to His death 33 years later, and He did it for us. He did it knowing the torture and physical agony that was involved, because He knew it was the only way to restore His beloved human race to Himself. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was nauseatingly ugly--as far from a Christmas card as you can get. But it was all for us, and if we believe that Jesus was who He said He was and ask for His death to pay for our sins, then they are wiped away. Our record is clean, and we get to experience heaven after we too go through death. Just because He loves us. He shall see the results of His agony, and be satisfied.
And do you know what I think? I think that calls for a party!!! Ring bells! Sing songs! Give presents! Give them to those we know and love, and to those we will never even meet, through wonderful agencies like World Relief and Compassion and Samaritan's Purse. They will be happy to turn your hard-earned dollars into goats, chickens, seeds, and other life-giving gifts, to make things just a little bit (or maybe a big bit) easier for some other sufferer in the world. Joy to the world! Because God loves us, and wants us, and did what it took to bring us to Himself. Hallelujah.
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Fancy Meeting You Here!
There is a small number of blogs which I read faithfully, either for information or just plain old fun, and I hardly ever skip a day because, well, just because I like it that way. Something interesting happened yesterday with two of the blogs to which you can link from this one. They met.
Thepioneerwoman.com is one of my all-time favorite fun sites. The woman is just wild, but in a very good way. She's married to a guy she refers to as Marlboro Man, and they have two daughters and two sons. PW announced a few days ago that Marlboro Man and the two girls were going on a trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International with some other bloggers, to see what Compassion does down there. I have sponsored kids through Compassion since about 1985, and so I found this interesting, and it has been fun to read MM's reactions to what he sees. PW has apparently stayed at home to arrange the blog posts as he sends them in, and the considerate guy keeps sending photos of laundry to prove to his wife that it's a universal problem--not just hers. With six people on a cattle ranch, PW does a LOT of laundry, much of it stinky. I'm sure all those photos are making her feel better.
Another blog I visit daily is www.challies.com. Tim Challies is a man in Canada of Calvinistic persuasion (I don't hold that against him) and his posts and links are always worth reading. I even bought a copy of his book, although it's packed in a box in the garage because it lived in that room which just got the new floor, so it may be some time before I can get my hands on it to actually read it. But I will. Honest. Tim Challies also announced a few days ago that he was going to...the Dominican Republic. With Compassion. Talk about a small world! I laughed about the coincidence.
So yesterday I read Pioneerwoman, and then scootted over to challies.com. Mr. Challies had a slide show up of photos he had taken, and as the pictures slide-showed by I noticed something. I saw pictures of Marlboro Man and the girls. Wait! Wrong website! You don't belong here! It was a very strange reaction. I knew intellectually that they were in the same place, but it was a little surreal all the same, kind of like if Harry Potter were to walk in through my office door. I never thought that any of these people were fictional, but I never expected them to appear together either. It's not clear to me why this startles me so.
Marlboro Man's post today has made my heart a little sad. It's not the poverty or anything, even though that's obviously a bad thing too. It's that when he talked about faith (a subject with which he is clearly uncomfortable) he seemed to be attributing the faith of a woman he met there to the wrong cause. MM kept talking about the importance of sponsors connecting with their sponsored children, and I got the feeling he thought that was where this woman's amazing faith and hope came from. Wrong anchor, dude. Way wrong. It made me very sad, and so if you read this, help me pray for this guy. He's a sweetie, and I'd love to see him in the kingdom if he isn't in it already, but at the very least he needs a stronger grasp of the source of our faith and our hope. Yikes. But for the record, I do think he is absolutely correct. It is the combination of the gospel, education, food, clothing, and connection with someone who cares that makes the most difference. For biblical backing, see James, chapter 3.
But the REALLY extraordinary thing is that my spell-checker had no problem with the term "slide-showed".
Love, Spud.
Thepioneerwoman.com is one of my all-time favorite fun sites. The woman is just wild, but in a very good way. She's married to a guy she refers to as Marlboro Man, and they have two daughters and two sons. PW announced a few days ago that Marlboro Man and the two girls were going on a trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International with some other bloggers, to see what Compassion does down there. I have sponsored kids through Compassion since about 1985, and so I found this interesting, and it has been fun to read MM's reactions to what he sees. PW has apparently stayed at home to arrange the blog posts as he sends them in, and the considerate guy keeps sending photos of laundry to prove to his wife that it's a universal problem--not just hers. With six people on a cattle ranch, PW does a LOT of laundry, much of it stinky. I'm sure all those photos are making her feel better.
Another blog I visit daily is www.challies.com. Tim Challies is a man in Canada of Calvinistic persuasion (I don't hold that against him) and his posts and links are always worth reading. I even bought a copy of his book, although it's packed in a box in the garage because it lived in that room which just got the new floor, so it may be some time before I can get my hands on it to actually read it. But I will. Honest. Tim Challies also announced a few days ago that he was going to...the Dominican Republic. With Compassion. Talk about a small world! I laughed about the coincidence.
So yesterday I read Pioneerwoman, and then scootted over to challies.com. Mr. Challies had a slide show up of photos he had taken, and as the pictures slide-showed by I noticed something. I saw pictures of Marlboro Man and the girls. Wait! Wrong website! You don't belong here! It was a very strange reaction. I knew intellectually that they were in the same place, but it was a little surreal all the same, kind of like if Harry Potter were to walk in through my office door. I never thought that any of these people were fictional, but I never expected them to appear together either. It's not clear to me why this startles me so.
Marlboro Man's post today has made my heart a little sad. It's not the poverty or anything, even though that's obviously a bad thing too. It's that when he talked about faith (a subject with which he is clearly uncomfortable) he seemed to be attributing the faith of a woman he met there to the wrong cause. MM kept talking about the importance of sponsors connecting with their sponsored children, and I got the feeling he thought that was where this woman's amazing faith and hope came from. Wrong anchor, dude. Way wrong. It made me very sad, and so if you read this, help me pray for this guy. He's a sweetie, and I'd love to see him in the kingdom if he isn't in it already, but at the very least he needs a stronger grasp of the source of our faith and our hope. Yikes. But for the record, I do think he is absolutely correct. It is the combination of the gospel, education, food, clothing, and connection with someone who cares that makes the most difference. For biblical backing, see James, chapter 3.
But the REALLY extraordinary thing is that my spell-checker had no problem with the term "slide-showed".
Love, Spud.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Random Things
I find myself with a list of random thoughts that have been sort of wandering around in my head, and none of them are thought through enough for an actual posting. They are not likely to get to that point either, as frantically busy as things have been, so I'm going to set them out before they get away entirely, in the probably doomed hope that I'll ever get around to pondering them some more.
For many years, I have struggled with the idea of "the fear of the Lord". Why on earth would I fear the Lord? He's MY Lord and I am His, I can't wait to meet Him, I get homesick for heaven. So then why is it that the *fear* of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom? Why should I be afraid? I'm finally starting to get a handle on this, at long last, as a series of teachings in the last year have made me realize just how deeply sinful I am and always will be. I have plumbed partway down the depths, and it ain't pretty down there. I have a sneaking suspicion that at the very bottom I'm about as horrible as they come. When I realize this, I also realize that God would have every right, and nearly an obligation, to squash me like a bug and throw me on the trash heap. While I dearly love Him and know that He loves me more than I can imagine, I also know that I stink. So lately I've become aware that I can't decide what I'll do when we finally meet face to face. Will I grovel at His feet in despair or throw my arms around His (figurative) neck with joy? Is it even possible to do both at once? Am I finally becoming wise?
A friend brought up an interesting point a few weeks ago, when we were discussing the age-old fact that bad things happen to good people. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the train of thought it set off in my head led me to the idea that sometimes life-altering tragedies happen because we have so many things that come between us and devotion to God.Those things are powerfully big in our lives, and we let God be very small. When those things are taken away, God is suddenly our One Big Thing, and we hopefully get some kind of perspective on the things that used to be big and now are very small.
I used to be in a small group Bible study with some people who were very well off financially. They led the group, and some other members were quite endowed with worldly goods also. At last, both the families with lots of money failed miserably in ministry and it was because of the temptations they failed to resist regarding money. Looking back, I used to roll my eyes at how frequently the teachings were about materialism. Now I can see that it was probably a case of God having a very large finger poking them in the ribs (among other places), trying to get their attentions before it was too late. So they taught about materialism because it was the subject they just couldn't get out of their heads and hearts. And for a good reason. This equates, I think, with all the powerful Christian leaders who speak for years about sexual sins and then find that their own hidden sexual sins are the ones that topple them. Maybe I should start paying closer attention to the things I feel compelled to teach about...
This last Sunday, I had an unplanned and unexpected DAY OFF. By golly, it was just really and truly a Saabbath rest. I made a conscious decision to absent myself from a regular and very worthy Sunday afternoon activity, and I am so glad. Frankly, I needed the down time very badly, and I ended up making my daughter feel better too just by my presence at home. I may do this again some time, although I'll have to resist being tempted to do it often. It was remarkably refreshing.
There is a journal in the holdings at OSU entitled "Nursing Made Incredibly Easy!". I am amused. I am also appalled, and hope to goodness that I never find myself the end user of that particular pedagogy. Oh my.
Love, Spud.
For many years, I have struggled with the idea of "the fear of the Lord". Why on earth would I fear the Lord? He's MY Lord and I am His, I can't wait to meet Him, I get homesick for heaven. So then why is it that the *fear* of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom? Why should I be afraid? I'm finally starting to get a handle on this, at long last, as a series of teachings in the last year have made me realize just how deeply sinful I am and always will be. I have plumbed partway down the depths, and it ain't pretty down there. I have a sneaking suspicion that at the very bottom I'm about as horrible as they come. When I realize this, I also realize that God would have every right, and nearly an obligation, to squash me like a bug and throw me on the trash heap. While I dearly love Him and know that He loves me more than I can imagine, I also know that I stink. So lately I've become aware that I can't decide what I'll do when we finally meet face to face. Will I grovel at His feet in despair or throw my arms around His (figurative) neck with joy? Is it even possible to do both at once? Am I finally becoming wise?
A friend brought up an interesting point a few weeks ago, when we were discussing the age-old fact that bad things happen to good people. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the train of thought it set off in my head led me to the idea that sometimes life-altering tragedies happen because we have so many things that come between us and devotion to God.Those things are powerfully big in our lives, and we let God be very small. When those things are taken away, God is suddenly our One Big Thing, and we hopefully get some kind of perspective on the things that used to be big and now are very small.
I used to be in a small group Bible study with some people who were very well off financially. They led the group, and some other members were quite endowed with worldly goods also. At last, both the families with lots of money failed miserably in ministry and it was because of the temptations they failed to resist regarding money. Looking back, I used to roll my eyes at how frequently the teachings were about materialism. Now I can see that it was probably a case of God having a very large finger poking them in the ribs (among other places), trying to get their attentions before it was too late. So they taught about materialism because it was the subject they just couldn't get out of their heads and hearts. And for a good reason. This equates, I think, with all the powerful Christian leaders who speak for years about sexual sins and then find that their own hidden sexual sins are the ones that topple them. Maybe I should start paying closer attention to the things I feel compelled to teach about...
This last Sunday, I had an unplanned and unexpected DAY OFF. By golly, it was just really and truly a Saabbath rest. I made a conscious decision to absent myself from a regular and very worthy Sunday afternoon activity, and I am so glad. Frankly, I needed the down time very badly, and I ended up making my daughter feel better too just by my presence at home. I may do this again some time, although I'll have to resist being tempted to do it often. It was remarkably refreshing.
There is a journal in the holdings at OSU entitled "Nursing Made Incredibly Easy!". I am amused. I am also appalled, and hope to goodness that I never find myself the end user of that particular pedagogy. Oh my.
Love, Spud.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
On Being a PIA
Back when Columbus had two newspapers, I got them both. The Citizen-Journal came in the wee dark hours of the early morning, and the Dispatch arrived in time for after work reading. The CJ folded in the eighties, and I mourned for it, and the Dispatch changed to a morning paper. I dearly love newspapers. When we travel, Stu knows to humor me in my daily search for a local paper. I'll even read USA Today if there just isn't anything else. When we were newly married and even poorer than churchmice, we got $5 each pocket money every week, and mine went for the daily paper until I decided it wasn't realistic to pretend any longer that it was a luxury that didn't fit the budget. For me, the paper is a necessity, and I prefer it in paper form. Of course, in order to justify it I had to give Stu a raise to $10 pocket money a week, but I kept mine at five to be fair.
But I'm a picky old lady, and I like my morning paper in the morning, particularly in time to read it with my morning tea and breakfast before I go to work. The individual who currently delivers my paper doesn't grasp this at all. Despite a Dispatch-imposed deadline of 6:30 on weekdays and 8am on weekends, my paper shows up some time after I leave for work at 6:50, and has gotten here late enough on a Sunday that I had to finish it at four in the afternoon. Well, as a picky old lady, let me just say that this isn't sitting very well. I've had to buy one on the way to work lately (and let me just point out that I'm really not supposed to read the newspaper at work--I'm supposed to be working) thereby paying for it twice. If I wait until evening, not only is the News very Old, but I don't have time for it anyway.
So I called a couple of weeks ago and complained, but it didn't do any good. I got a woman on the phone who was deeply weary of her job, and responded like an automaton reading from a script, which she doubtless was. Reading from a script, I mean, not an automaton. Although it was hard to tell. In any case, it failed to have an effect on the paper delivery person, who continues to show up at some unknown time.
I did have this problem once before. When we moved into this neighborhood a little over ten years ago the newspaper had been carried by the same family for many years--kind of a delivery mafia. They had many children, all blonde and charming, and when one grew up and left home the route was just passed on to the next oldest in line. That's all well and good, but until it got to the very youngest a few years ago, none of them were capable of delivering on time. Some people would get offended by this comment, but I'll make it anyway--the problem seemed to be rooted in the fact that this enormous family was home-schooled, and they really had no concept of "schedule". Or at least, no concept that anybody else might have one. So I had years of late newspapers, and no amount of complaining, cajoling, or anything else did any good. I just had to wait it out until the last yellow-headed youngster left the nest a couple of years ago and an adult took over.
So this latest guy took over in July, and he appears to be an adult too (it's very dark out there, but he's a pretty good size and drives, which may or may not be an indication, and he's clearly past high school because when he does arrive it's after the bus goes). My question is: Just how much of a pain in the arse should I be over this? Granted, I shouldn't have to pay for two papers daily when I only read one, but it's my choice to do this. I could just suck it up and accept going through withdrawal like a grown-up. And it's not like I actually pay for service. The paper is the same price delivered or picked up. On the other hand, he is getting paid for providing the service, and he's not providing it in a timely manner. And on still another hand, he may have extenuating circumstances out the whazoo, in which case I would be willing to just cancel my subscription since I'm fetching it myself anyway. Or he may just be a slacker and needs a fire to be lit in an appropriate place. But I can't tell that from here, and the automaton was no help at all. And is it fair to keep calling and complaining when I didn't do that to the Blonde Mafia? I did see them in person, however, and let my feelings be known, probably a little too gently, when they came to collect. Nobody collects in person any more though, it's all done by mail.
I am well aware of my propensity to be anal about some things which are doubtless trivial, and to fail to be anal about things that probably need attention, so I'm really waffling over this. How much fuss should I make over what is actually a luxury item, even though it happens to be my personal favorite luxury item ever? I need a sense of perspective on this, and I don't have it. All I have is irritation and fewer quarters. Any advice, people?
Love and Bruxism, Spud.
But I'm a picky old lady, and I like my morning paper in the morning, particularly in time to read it with my morning tea and breakfast before I go to work. The individual who currently delivers my paper doesn't grasp this at all. Despite a Dispatch-imposed deadline of 6:30 on weekdays and 8am on weekends, my paper shows up some time after I leave for work at 6:50, and has gotten here late enough on a Sunday that I had to finish it at four in the afternoon. Well, as a picky old lady, let me just say that this isn't sitting very well. I've had to buy one on the way to work lately (and let me just point out that I'm really not supposed to read the newspaper at work--I'm supposed to be working) thereby paying for it twice. If I wait until evening, not only is the News very Old, but I don't have time for it anyway.
So I called a couple of weeks ago and complained, but it didn't do any good. I got a woman on the phone who was deeply weary of her job, and responded like an automaton reading from a script, which she doubtless was. Reading from a script, I mean, not an automaton. Although it was hard to tell. In any case, it failed to have an effect on the paper delivery person, who continues to show up at some unknown time.
I did have this problem once before. When we moved into this neighborhood a little over ten years ago the newspaper had been carried by the same family for many years--kind of a delivery mafia. They had many children, all blonde and charming, and when one grew up and left home the route was just passed on to the next oldest in line. That's all well and good, but until it got to the very youngest a few years ago, none of them were capable of delivering on time. Some people would get offended by this comment, but I'll make it anyway--the problem seemed to be rooted in the fact that this enormous family was home-schooled, and they really had no concept of "schedule". Or at least, no concept that anybody else might have one. So I had years of late newspapers, and no amount of complaining, cajoling, or anything else did any good. I just had to wait it out until the last yellow-headed youngster left the nest a couple of years ago and an adult took over.
So this latest guy took over in July, and he appears to be an adult too (it's very dark out there, but he's a pretty good size and drives, which may or may not be an indication, and he's clearly past high school because when he does arrive it's after the bus goes). My question is: Just how much of a pain in the arse should I be over this? Granted, I shouldn't have to pay for two papers daily when I only read one, but it's my choice to do this. I could just suck it up and accept going through withdrawal like a grown-up. And it's not like I actually pay for service. The paper is the same price delivered or picked up. On the other hand, he is getting paid for providing the service, and he's not providing it in a timely manner. And on still another hand, he may have extenuating circumstances out the whazoo, in which case I would be willing to just cancel my subscription since I'm fetching it myself anyway. Or he may just be a slacker and needs a fire to be lit in an appropriate place. But I can't tell that from here, and the automaton was no help at all. And is it fair to keep calling and complaining when I didn't do that to the Blonde Mafia? I did see them in person, however, and let my feelings be known, probably a little too gently, when they came to collect. Nobody collects in person any more though, it's all done by mail.
I am well aware of my propensity to be anal about some things which are doubtless trivial, and to fail to be anal about things that probably need attention, so I'm really waffling over this. How much fuss should I make over what is actually a luxury item, even though it happens to be my personal favorite luxury item ever? I need a sense of perspective on this, and I don't have it. All I have is irritation and fewer quarters. Any advice, people?
Love and Bruxism, Spud.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Oh, My Head!
I may be alone in this experience, but somehow I don't think so.
Have you ever found your head wandering away, with you or without you? I don't mean the usual gentle wool-gathering, I mean speeding down a highway where you really don't want to go. Yikes. This happened to me yesterday, and I'm still getting over it. I'd received an interesting/disturbing message from someone in the morning, and then in the afternoon I got into a small wrangle with a co-worker. Well, the morning message brought up a lot of old grievances, dating back as far as elementary school. That's ridiculous, isn't it? You're right, it is! But I went there anyway, and stayed there even as late as my morning commute. The work issue is still somewhat with me, because it really isn't resolved and I'll have to deal with it again. But this time, I'll be ready, boy! I've been thinking about it for a whole day, and I've got all my arguments lined up!
Okay, now that's just sinful. Let's face it. While I do need to be able to approach my work with logic and intelligence, there's just no excuse for the vehemence with which I've prepared my reasoning. And while the episodes of my youth are graven-in-stone history, there's absolutely no excuse for the way I have wallowed in the hurts caused by past actions of others. Get that? I may have plenty of fine REASONS, but in the end I have no EXCUSES. But my wretched head goes there anyway. Oh, what to do?
What to do is...first, talk to myself. David Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote a book about spiritual depression, and the introduction to the book ends with a marvelously insightful few paragraphs about talking to yourself. I don't remember it well enough to quote it, but the basic idea is that from the moment we wake up in the morning there are thoughts in our heads. Many of those thoughts are not God-honoring, and in fact are just downright false, and so you know where they come from--Satan and our own sinful selves. Well, as a man (or woman!) thinks, so he is. So you've just got to get your thoughts under control, and take them captive to Christ. So DML-J says that we should address ourselves most sternly, and say "Self! Get a grip!" or words to that effect. (I warned you that it would not be a direct quote!) After you've gotten the attention of your sinful old self, then talk to it! And tell it the truth. Fill your old head up with the things of God, and squash the other junk out for lack of room. Refute the falsehoods. Ha! Take that!
Secondly, is prayer. Once you've cleaned out your head, it's time to address your heart. I so often ascribe really horrible motivations to other people, and while I may be correct, I may not! Only God knows for sure, and He doesn't often let me in on the secret. So I am just wrong in assuming I know why the other person said what they said or did what they did. It may be that they were in the midst of some ancient or modern hurt of their own, and spoke and acted from their own pain. So frequently, we all just respond on auto-pilot from the grid of our own past experiences, and hurt others without intention or even knowledge that we have done so. Or maybe I have radically misinterpreted! I suspect this is the case as often as not.
Grace means that I give others the benefit of the doubt. Forgiveness from God for all my blunders means that I must pass that on to others. As freely as I have received, I have to freely give, or I become some horrible, stingy, dried-up-spiritually thing. Nobody wants that!
So I found myself in the car this morning, once again working through the process of forgiving the probably clueless person who hurt me so in the past, and giving my heart to God for yet another dose of cleaning up. I'll have to do this on a regular basis for as long as I live, I imagine, because I don't see my sinful Self going away this side of glory. But, my goodness, God really does do a terrific job of heart-cleaning once I get around to asking for it, and then I find that "time of refreshing" that was promised. Just like the clothes I wear, I find that my soul needs frequent trips through the wash. Happy am I for a God who does most excellent laundry!
Love, Spud.
Have you ever found your head wandering away, with you or without you? I don't mean the usual gentle wool-gathering, I mean speeding down a highway where you really don't want to go. Yikes. This happened to me yesterday, and I'm still getting over it. I'd received an interesting/disturbing message from someone in the morning, and then in the afternoon I got into a small wrangle with a co-worker. Well, the morning message brought up a lot of old grievances, dating back as far as elementary school. That's ridiculous, isn't it? You're right, it is! But I went there anyway, and stayed there even as late as my morning commute. The work issue is still somewhat with me, because it really isn't resolved and I'll have to deal with it again. But this time, I'll be ready, boy! I've been thinking about it for a whole day, and I've got all my arguments lined up!
Okay, now that's just sinful. Let's face it. While I do need to be able to approach my work with logic and intelligence, there's just no excuse for the vehemence with which I've prepared my reasoning. And while the episodes of my youth are graven-in-stone history, there's absolutely no excuse for the way I have wallowed in the hurts caused by past actions of others. Get that? I may have plenty of fine REASONS, but in the end I have no EXCUSES. But my wretched head goes there anyway. Oh, what to do?
What to do is...first, talk to myself. David Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote a book about spiritual depression, and the introduction to the book ends with a marvelously insightful few paragraphs about talking to yourself. I don't remember it well enough to quote it, but the basic idea is that from the moment we wake up in the morning there are thoughts in our heads. Many of those thoughts are not God-honoring, and in fact are just downright false, and so you know where they come from--Satan and our own sinful selves. Well, as a man (or woman!) thinks, so he is. So you've just got to get your thoughts under control, and take them captive to Christ. So DML-J says that we should address ourselves most sternly, and say "Self! Get a grip!" or words to that effect. (I warned you that it would not be a direct quote!) After you've gotten the attention of your sinful old self, then talk to it! And tell it the truth. Fill your old head up with the things of God, and squash the other junk out for lack of room. Refute the falsehoods. Ha! Take that!
Secondly, is prayer. Once you've cleaned out your head, it's time to address your heart. I so often ascribe really horrible motivations to other people, and while I may be correct, I may not! Only God knows for sure, and He doesn't often let me in on the secret. So I am just wrong in assuming I know why the other person said what they said or did what they did. It may be that they were in the midst of some ancient or modern hurt of their own, and spoke and acted from their own pain. So frequently, we all just respond on auto-pilot from the grid of our own past experiences, and hurt others without intention or even knowledge that we have done so. Or maybe I have radically misinterpreted! I suspect this is the case as often as not.
Grace means that I give others the benefit of the doubt. Forgiveness from God for all my blunders means that I must pass that on to others. As freely as I have received, I have to freely give, or I become some horrible, stingy, dried-up-spiritually thing. Nobody wants that!
So I found myself in the car this morning, once again working through the process of forgiving the probably clueless person who hurt me so in the past, and giving my heart to God for yet another dose of cleaning up. I'll have to do this on a regular basis for as long as I live, I imagine, because I don't see my sinful Self going away this side of glory. But, my goodness, God really does do a terrific job of heart-cleaning once I get around to asking for it, and then I find that "time of refreshing" that was promised. Just like the clothes I wear, I find that my soul needs frequent trips through the wash. Happy am I for a God who does most excellent laundry!
Love, Spud.
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