♪ Something Good ♪

I slept on the couch last night. No, I was not mad at Jonathan… and if I was, sleeping on the couch would have no effect on a partner working overseas. HA!

My bed moved ahead of me to the new house, but in true pioneer-woman form, I stayed behind to defend the homestead against teenage druggie neighbors and the prying eyes of my soon-to-be-former landlord. We have yet to move the electronics and big furniture items, so Shiloh and I stayed here at the Cottage while the menfolk bunked down at Seymour Road.

I stood at the windows of the new living room yesterday while Jon and I talked and prayed about Life in Kuwait. Working overseas can be like living a daily travel nightmare at times, and yesterday was one of those days. He doesn’t show a lot of emotion, like most men, especially in regards to their job, but I can hear tension under the surface. I viewed the neighbor’s estate as we talked, and tried to kythe  (as Madeleine L’Engle would say, or telecommunicate) the peace in my line of vision while we talked about corporate lunacy.

Across the street from us is an estate.

A Tyrolean style home, complete with scalloped wooden gates, and a spreading lawn with hedge rows and huge graceful trees. I’ve long admired this home and the surrounding grounds in the ten years that I have driven past it, and now it is my daily view.

Stark contrast to the little country neighborhood that God blessed us with in the aftermath of The Hurricane which constituted the person I married after the boys’ dad and I split up. (We refer to him as The Hurricane because he always stirred up trouble and left a wake of debris, and, in reference to the First Failed Marriage, as my mom likes to tell folks back home at the grocery, HA, gambling issues and physical abuse do not a marriage make…). ANYWAY, six years ago The Hurricane and I had settled with the teenage boys into a gorgeous brick home west of here where I could walk with my best friend and walk to work and have friends over, but when he blew out of town, with my furniture and most of my dignity, we had to quickly find new digs, and we were blessed with the Cottage on New Years’ Day, ’07.That morning during the Rose Parade telecast, I prayed for a 4-BR house with a fireplace so the boys could keep their own rooms and a semblance of the life I’d envisioned in the house.

THAT very afternoon my prayer was answered.

I had to sacrifice what was left of my twice-divorced dignity to live in the Cottage. A WWII bungalow with little charm, it took lots of elbow grease and ingenuity to make it cozy on the inside. Living near a country highway and a small airport does NOT allow for cozy spaces outside. At all. HA Also, out the front door of the Cottage I usually see several low-life young people smoking in the garage of their grandparents’ home, where they live with an assortment of seriously annoying dogs and two small disheveled children. We usually kept the door shut, and made a life for ourselves inside or away from the house. 

As I stood at the window yesterday, looking at the graceful lines of the chalet-type home in my new neighborhood, listening to Jonathan’s deep tones coming from across the world, I felt a little like Maria von Trapp in the gazebo with the Captain, reveling in each other. Only slightly different that Maria, my awestruck-self marveled at the grace of God giving me Jonathan and a new home with him. 

Echoes of, “Perhaps I had a wicked childhood, I know I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in my  wicked, miserable past, I must have had a moment of truth. For here You are, standing there loving me, whether or not You should, for somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must have done something good. Something good… nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever should, so somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must have done something good.”

Thank You Jesus, for carrying me from the Hurricane, through cancer, and to the view of the chalet. I must have done something good…

Speak Freely... ???!!!

So... this morning during my twice-daily-debriefing with my time-traveling contractor boyfriend, our discussion bore witness to the plaintive call to Tuesday evening prayer. Emanating from the mosque on the corner of his block in Kuwait City, it came through a closed window and across Skype quite prominently. ( He jokingly calls it the neighborhood alarm clock ). We listened for a moment, and I imagined Muslims all over the city scrambling for their prayer rugs and facing Mecca, wherever they were, to fulfill that last mandated ritual of the day as the sun set over the Persian Gulf.

Interestingly enough we were in a discussion about a young lady we both love who seems to think she is the mullah of his family, telling people how they can interact, what they are allowed to say -- and to whom -- and consequences of those edicts are not met to her specifications, all the while asserting her First Amendment Right to free speech.

Unless something has gone seriously awry, the First Amendment is not limited to a young lady in Southwestern Arizona, nor does it have a clause for her to make such demands of anyone. However, lest readers think this essay is directed towards this unique and wonderful, albeit confused individual, these incidents are popping up all over the place. 

Legislation was removed from discussion last week about censoring posts on the Internet, which in theory seems like a good idea. It might help keep folks' language to a higher standard, thwart terrorism, and restore decency, but what about that pesky First Amendment? We now have a Director of Progressive Media and Rapid Response in the White House, whose sole job is to scour the Internet for any disparaging articles regarding the White House occupants and staff, and respond to them. Director of Progressive Media. Huh. 

The last few weeks of my personal life have been fraught with these types of ridiculous demands from other people, telling me in word and action what they think I am allowed to say and do. There have been edicts in my own family during my late father's passing to 'not bring up the past anymore', all the while stating their big fat opinion about the past. Huh. Ummm, unless something has shifted in the definition of family, the past is what binds them together, good or bad. So, under a gag order to not ever bring up the past, we now have very very little present or future together, and have been reduced to Facebook-friend-chitchat about daily fluff. If that. See the following.

I have posted twice in as many days my opinion, and twice over those two days have been dropped 

( deleted) and blocked ( unable to see any posts, pics, or other comments ) due to folks taking offense at. my. opinion. Guess the First Amendment belongs to them and Miss Arizona. At least three people are guaranteed that right, just not me. :-P

My sister asked me this morning who had I pissed off, since my daily comments on my page showed a little angst. Angst indeed that my dissemination of facts to family and opinion to friends caused me considerable abuse. I hadn't purposely irritated anyone. Been pretty happily quiet, in fact, until Miss Fuzzy First Amendment and the two hard line Facebook Nazis made me stop and wonder about the state of affairs in this country and how the First Amendment is being used as a weapon.

Our freedom of speech cannot be abused -- nor can it be limited ( at least under current law) -- and there are laws to enforce and defend our freedom. We all fall short of civility at times. I myself have been vitriolic in the past, and have apologized to so many people... to include old boyfriends from high school that I wounded. ( One of them used me in his ministry as an example of how not to be. D'oh!) 

I hope that this country holds together, but between the Director of Progressive Media spreading glittery cover over anything unfavorable about our government, and the antithesis -- people limiting other people from speaking about just about anything, I think we may be heading for a huge shift. And it won't be glittery... just graphic and gritty. Lord Jesus, maybe You could come back for us soon? Any day now???

♪Early morning yesterday, I was up before the dawn...♪

"And I will go on shining shining like brand new, I'll never look behind me my  troubles will be few.."
Brand new, yes. Troubles few, not a chance. But it's worth the risk of changing simply for that hope...


January 1994.


Halfway through my third pregnancy, two monumental events took place. On MLK Monday, after the boys' dad had left for work at o'dark-thirty, The Northridge quake shook our little house on the riverbed, 60+ miles away. I snatched my kindergartner Randall and my toddler Craig out of their bunkbeds by their pajamas and wrapped my arms around them while simultaneously covering my second-trimester tummy and bracing us all in the doorway of my bedroom. We were lucky that we didn't live in Northridge, CA, because as soon as I tucked them next to me on the couch to wait for the Big One, I saw on the news that a CHP motorcycle cop had driven off the freeway during the quake, and that many of my friends living in L.A. had probably lost everything they had in that shaker.


Chemo brain and old age blur the dates, but not long before or just after the Northridge quake, another early morning jolt woke me out of a deep sleep. The phone rang shrilly through the house, and I stumbled to the living room so my pre-dawn conversation with Whomever IT WAS wouldn't wake the boys.


I'd been to choir the night previous, and joined hands in a circle to pray for the peaceful passing of my friend and co-worker, Julie, whose heart had begun to fail and organs shut down during the week. We prayed for Tom and baby Catie, two weeks younger than my little Craigie. Julie and I had cleaned out the Sizzler salad bar at regular intervals during our pregnancies, some of many wonderful times together as young brides. Tom had said good-bye to his sweetheart and taken the little two-and-a-half year-old princess home to start a life without Mommy, after her ten-year battle with heart disease and the one successful pregnancy out of nearly a dozen. As we spoke their names in the circle the little one within me fluttered, and I could barely keep from crying out. What if my boys were to have to go on without me? As the words went around the circle a strange calm settled in. The group broke up and went home with heavy hearts oddly touched with a sense of peace. We knew she would be at peace soon...


I grabbed the brown Trimline receiver with its glowing digital buttons, clonked it to my face, and grumbled a greeting. It was the contact for Julie's Phone Chain.


My heart sank.


But not for long.


"They found a match. She's going in to surgery in ten minutes."


THEY FOUND A HEART. I still have goosebumps. even at this very moment 18 years later, when I recall those few words and the silent sobs of relief at their pronouncement.


They found a heart. Julie had a new heart.


In the weeks that followed her life seemd to be touch and go even with the new heart. I couldn't visit because she contracted a virus that would harm Little Fluttering One, so until later that summer, all I could do was pray and hope and call occasionally to check on Tom and little Catie.


In the years that have followed, Julie's life has been touch and go. So has Catie's. The new heart did not solve every single problem they would ever have.


Julie has stayed steadfast in her belief in a Creator God, who made her and would keep her here or take her Home whenever He was ready. So has Tom, and so has Catie.


Some folks say Christianity is just a myth based on old legends and archaic customs. Maybe. We won't ever know until the next life.


Those who choose to cling to the hope of life beyond death don't hold to the possibility of a myth, but to a Great Hope.We believe in an eternal life in the presence of God, the Father Almighty. So, in the meantime, if we choose to get "a new heart", a change in attitude, a change in what we believe to be Truth beyond what we know, revere, and hold worthy of our worship and our energy, our lives will still be touch and go, just like Julie's -- but they will be full of grace and gratitude on a much deeper level.


Just like Julie's.


Happy  Heart Anniversary, Miss Julie. We love you.

Vitamin Enriched Reading

I love to read. I love words, stories, articles, sagas.

My mom used to run into the living room from the other end of our home to determine why she could hear big "thunks" emanating from the living room where I vacuumedon Saturday mornings.
She'd take whatever book I had in one hand away from me so I could see where I was running the sweeper to save her furniture and lamps from certain death. HA In school I used to get busted for having an open library book in my desk while doing math. (That may have contributed to my lack of success in the mathematical arts. Who knew?
I am surrounded by bibliophiles, lovers of books. One of my GilbertGirls posted the day after Christmas, “I now own a signed copy of a book that has not been released yet! If anyone is looking for me, I will be
between the pages.” 

Several of my friends have written books, or blog,or write for the newspaper. I've written a book. Mine is not, nor will it be a best-seller. That's okay. My own words on those pages are like a photo album for my
children and grandchildren to pore over later on, to know about the 'olden days' of the 60's and 70's.

The Real Live ‘olden days’ have carried on in the best-selling tome of all time. First translated into Greek in 250 B.C.E., this ancient epic can be read in 2,076 languages. By 1804, in the manual printing press days, circulation had reached 409 million copies. As of today,it is estimated the 5 BILLION copies, 2.5 since 1975, have been printed since 1815. No telling how many trillion through the Internet.

Some call it outdated, irrelevant, archaic.
Some decry it as mythology of fantasy. Some refute any truth in it, although the first half pretty much mirrorsworld history, and the second half contains stories thatspawned more books, debates, arguments,and organizationsthan any other grass-roots movement through time immemorial.

The Bible was written by men, yes. 40 different authors, over three continents. Carefully
scribing generations of oral storytelling, there are bound to be chunks missing. The message of it does not lie in any individual phrases or chapters, save for one. One Big Message of Hope.
"For God so loved the world, that HE gave his ONLY begotten son, so that whosoever believes in Him shall have eternal life". 

No contracts, no membership dues or practices, no rules. Just believe. Believe.

Simply summarized, God says, “I looked down, created all things, came to visit, and will come back. Be kind, and love one another in the meantime.”

The story of redemption is like a multivitamin that you swallow whole. Yes, you could purchase separately all the vitamins in that pill,choosing to take some and not the others – but the best outcome is to take them in combination with the others so that every part of your body gets what it needs.

Swallow it whole. Let your own spirit digest it.
Every person has a different chemistry, and so one cannot tell the other, “Your body has to absorb it JUST LIKE MINE”. It’s usually not good to force a multivitamin down someone’s throat, as they gag and spit it out. Let everyone choose when and how they want to partake. Jesus never chased after anyone, but let them tag along wherever He went.

Like vitamins, The Story is non-denominational. No time frame for consumption, no regulations on how or when to administer, no qualifications for absorption. If you have never taken a multivitamin in your life, it doesn’tharm you if you suddenly start, or stop, and the same istrue for accepting the Word of God, recorded by men.

Ancient Words don’t lose their power like outdated vitamins, though..they are fresh every time you open
them. And they're free!

♪ L'Chaim.. to Life!

Life has a way of confusing us,

Blessing and bruising us,

Drink   l'chaim , to life!

God would like us to be joyful, 

even when our hearts lie panting on the floor.

How much more can we be joyful, when there's really

something to be joyful for?

To life, to life, l'chaim!

A cast of people portraying Russian peasants sings this in the classic musical, Fiddler on the Roof. The setting was 1905, in Czarist Russia, where the monarchy lived in opulence and the populace lived from moment to moment, if they survived the harsh climate of pre-industrial Russia at all.

Just this last Saturday, we drank, to Life! To Blessings!  It’s a new year… but we have the same problems ( and a few new ones, nationally).

Last night I had a sort of post-holiday fuss. Not a meltdown or a fit, just a fuss. There are a few external things in my life that really annoy me, environmental issues if you will. I ranted for quite a few minutes, bemoaning these things. It didn’t change any of them. Who knew??
I woke up before dawn reviewing my litany of misery from the night before, and lay still for a while wondering how to address those issues with the resources that I have at hand. I can’t. I need new resources, which will take a little while to procure. But in the meantime, I realized that while I think I suffer, and I have, on some days, we all have, I don’t really suffer so much as I’m inconvenienced. I can live with that. :-) I’ll be bold and say that applies to most of us.

Suffering is living in a mud hut in Africa.

Suffering is watching out for enemies on a drive to work through Kabul, or on a helo over Afghanistan.

Suffering is having cancer and no medical care.

Suffering is watching your house burn down.

Suffering is losing a child to an accident or a spouse to a disease.

Suffering is being without hope, without comfort, without relief.

Suffering is living on mud cookies in Haiti, and then having an earthquake destroy your nation.

Suffering is watching your village swept away by a tsunami.

My friends and family reading this do not suffer much. Unless we have been faced with the death of a spouse or a child or a house fire, we mostly suffer from Major Inconveniences and Minor Ones.

Cancer is a Major Inconvenience. It takes over your body, and then your life for a time. If you have insurance it’s mostly a long-drawn out inconvenience. 


It is sometimes the death knell for end-stage victims, which cannot be misconstrued as an inconvenience by any means, for leaving this world involves suffering and pain. 


But for most cancer patients who get treated and recover, it’s a Major Inconvenience.

Most other things that we whine about after the holiday parties are over, the tree and the lights are stored, and the reality of the long winter faces us are minor inconveniences.  Long workdays, annoying relatives, difficult bosses, lines at the grocery store, bills in the mail are all minor inconveniences -- if we choose to be negative.

One can choose to look at a long work week and sigh, or one can be grateful for a job.

Many seek work and have little to live upon.

One can feel obligated and drawn upon, or one can be glad to have tasks to do and strength to do them.

Many live in solitude or with disabilities that keep them from doing much of anything.

One can check off a list of Things That Need to Be Done, or be glad to be free to do them in whatever order, and whenever, desired.

Many live under oppression, where they have no decisions to make.

It’s a New Year. I don’t suffer much. I have inconveniences that make me long for different circumstance, for sure, but that’s all they are. Inconveniences, and nothing that I can’t live with and strive to change.

"Life has a way of confusing us, blessing us and bruising us..."

Bruises heal, and they remind us to be careful. Look for the blessings in the inconveniences...