"Dear God"

Dear God—

I am sorry that I complain and moan and groan so much. 

You take such good care of me.

You have given me not only a roof over my head but a home. It is freezing outside, and I am warm inside, as I listen to my heat pump run. 

I have food to fill me, to nourish and sustain me.  The only time I lack is because I am too lazy to make a trip to the grocery store.

You have replaced the tears with laughter.  I cannot recollect the last time I cried or felt true grief.  I only have to look back to yesterday to remember gut chuckles coming from inside of me; this morning I already have a smile on my face.

You have given me wealth in relationships.  “People first.”  That is your mantra, and not only do I have my family, but my cup overflows with those who have come into my life, enriching it and adding to it. 

You have given me a means to support myself, and the work is where I complain the most.  I am sorry.  You have always said that it’s about the people, not the work, and I recognize that daily. 

You have given me health, physical strength, and stamina, and I respond by grumbling, “I am so tired.”  I wonder if getting up at 5 in the morning and not eating lunch may contribute to that.  I apologize.  That's my "bad," not Yours.

You have given me Yourself.  You are the first person I turn to no matter what happens in my life.  You never turn on me or judge me; You always listen to my rants and my gratitudes; You hold my hand and walk me through difficult situations.  Simply—You are always there.

You know that I do not “do” New Year’s resolutions.  However, I hope that as my life continues on that I will treat you better.  You deserve it.

Your daughter--

"On What I Did"

There is a television show where unwitting individuals are set up in a variety of scenarios. Situations unfold with actors, and the camera records the reactions and responses of those nearby.  For example, there may be a conversation taking place in a restaurant where a mother, played by an actress, is verbally abusive to her child, also an actor, or diners/actors are openly rude to a service person.  The scenes generally include the unkind treatment of one person directed toward another. 

The premise of it all is, "What would you do?" a question asked of the viewer as they observe the response of those being recorded--intervene on behalf of the innocent, the victim; take notice but do nothing; ignore, pretend nothing is happening?  

In thinking about such hypothetical circumstances, I, for one, was hopeful that I would respond with the grandest of actions--sticking up for the underdog, standing up for the helpless, the innocent, the weakest amongst us.  But there is the picture--and then there is reality.  

I was awakened this morning at 3 A. M. by the sound of a guy running down the sidewalk yelling, "Help me!  Please help me!  Somebody please help me!"  As he came closer I could hear him colliding with garbage cans and recycling containers set out on the curb, bottles crashing to the street. 

My bedroom window is at the corner of the house where a fence connects, the gate adjacent to the house, leading into my back yard.  My window was open, and I heard him say, "Oh, good, there's a gate," as he tried opening it.

Heart pounding, wide awake at this point, I questioned whether or not I should call the police.  Was I in danger, was he an endangerment to himself, hallucinating from drugs or alcohol, his mind and body overcome?  What was really going on?  And what was I going to do?  How involved was I going to be? 

And this is what I did:  After checking that all the doors in the house were locked, I lay in bed, thankful I had placed the padlock on my gate, and I listened as he continued on down the street, dogs barking because he had awakened and roused them with his ranting and raving. 

As I thought about it, I determined if I had heard two individuals, one of them being chased, or if it had been a woman, I would have intervened, I would have called for help. But you know, I'm not sure if I would have done anything any differently. 

And the question that is running through my mind in the light of day--What if I was the one running down the street at 3 A. M. in the morning crying out for help and everyone who heard responded exactly the way I did?  And did nothing, absolutely nothing.
   

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

"On Cloud Covers, Vision, and Faith"

There is an image in my mind’s eye.  It is one I can easily relate to, as it is a scene quite common in the Pacific Northwest where I live.  The weather people call it a “cloud cover.”  During certain times of the year it becomes quite thick, taking the form of fog, and visibility is not only limited but non-existent. 

In my mind I look up and can see nothing, only clouds.   I know if I could see through the clouds that endless scope would not be blocked from my vision.  But I am bound to this physical sphere called Earth and this physical body, and I cannot see beyond the clouds. 

A woman I know experienced the passing of her mother very recently.  She had been ill for quite some time, but her death is, nonetheless, a source of pain and grief for the family.  This past Thanksgiving was the first holiday they spent without their mother and grandmother and now, with Christmas upon us, they are dealing with another imminent first.  Loss, a very real, heart-rending loss.

Yesterday a man spoke with me about the death of one of his best friends two weeks ago.  He expressed that he will grieve his passing for the rest of his life.  While his friend had been sick as well with a terminal illness, and his death was no shock, he too is facing this holiday with that sense of loss--deep, personal loss. 

Why?  Why is there such pain, such hurt, such grief in our lives?  Sometimes it seems as though it never ends, that the same song plays over and over again, and the circumstances and the scenery are the only things that change.  For some it becomes a debilitating factor in living life; for others the pain and the hurt doesn’t end but becomes overpowering and consuming.  Often the holiday season, Thanksgiving and Christmas, only intensifies and amplifies it.    

Many years ago I had a dream that I was declared legally blind.  I understood when I awakened that I had been given a picture of my spiritual state.  It wasn’t a judgment, but a reality.  My spiritual vision is that limited.  

I have no answer as to the “Why?” of things, particularly in other’s lives.  My spiritual sight and vision is as limited as my physical vision is when I’m curtailed by a physical cloud cover.  Any insight I might have is given when I am allowed to see from above, as it were, to see as He sees.

faith:  a feeling, conviction, or belief that something is true or real, not contingent upon reason or justification

A simple definition is that faith is believing without seeing.

Some feel that only those who exercise a belief in God live their life in faith, but we all live a faith-based life.  Each of us believes in something; we differ only in the object of that faith, that belief.  Some have chosen to place their faith in a person, an entity, one with personality and intrinsic love; others place their faith in theories, hypotheses, suppositions, or ideologies.  While polar opposites, the strength of belief and conviction is equal. 

I had a favorite aunt whose only child was born with Down's Syndrome.  She and my uncle lived their lives in total dedication to the love and care of my cousin.  I never remember hearing a complaint over their lot in life.  What I do remember is how much Bonita was loved. 

One single comment from my aunt is a part of me.  There must have been a discussion taking place regarding faith and understanding.  Very, very quietly she spoke. "Sometimes you don't understand.  You just have to have faith."  And she said no more.  She walked the walk. 

As with my aunt, I am of the belief that there is a point and a purpose in all things, even those which are difficult and heart-breaking.  It is a matter of living my life entrusted in the One who created and designed me and living that life at times without answers or understanding.    

Revel in the glimpses, the insights, the truths you are given--each and every one of them, for they are gifts given to you, for you.  Each is a building block and of great importance; they are your personal treasures and can never be taken from you. 

What a gift--to see beyond the cloud cover with true vision and sight.  It is priceless, that which money cannot buy.


"Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.  All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God knows me completely.

"We walk by faith, not by sight."

    

         

"On Doing Dishes By Hand"

 

    

 

    Reaching for a spoon in the drawer and finding only two left, I remembered I had run the dishwasher the night before. It needed to be emptied, a task I often grumble about. You know, “It just takes so long” --even though it never takes more than a few minutes to return the clean dishes to the cupboards or drawers.

    Recently, I’ve been thinking about dishwashers, washing dishes, and a time, for the most part, that has been left behind.

    When I was growing up, I was expected to dry the dishes Mom washed and rinsed. She was not one to allow them to air dry—God forbid! So, every night after supper was completed, my mother and I could be found at the kitchen sink as she washed, and I dried.

    The towels used to dry were specifically designated for that purpose, a heavy cotton that absorbed the water but never got soaked. They were given treatment relegated for the finest of linens, the unused ones ironed and tucked away in a drawer. Several of them were hand-embroidered, some with days of the week, others with a variety of figures.

    My mother never had a dishwasher. In part, it may have been because her kitchen was so small. However, I doubt she would have agreed to such an appliance even if there was space.

    Those times at the kitchen sink where Mom and I talked are cherished memories. I don’t remember most of our conversations, but I remember her comment more than once that “Things could be worse.” I must have bared my soul to her, but that was never the response I wanted to hear. I am quite certain she did a lot of listening, as I have always been a talker; she was quiet and softspoken. Often, she would ask, “Are you nice to everyone at school?” She knew her daughter well.

    When I was in high school, she helped me study Latin conjugations, English vocabulary words, or facts for a test. The study sheet was propped up in the kitchen window so she could review it with me as she washed.

    When holidays or company came the dishes were never stacked and left dirty. They were always dealt with. The small kitchen was filled with women of all ages as they washed, dried, and put dishes away. As I look back, it was a good time, filled with family and friendship, laughter, and chatter.

    I must have carried those memories and experiences forward into my own life, as I resisted the use of a dishwasher myself for quite some time. I found the time of cleaning up the kitchen, washing and drying the dishes and putting them away to be therapeutic, a quiet time alone. There isn’t a whole lot of quarreling within a family as to who gets to help with the dishes, and I opted to do them myself.

    I am an advocate for spending time alone with oneself and one’s thoughts. I still have memories of sinking my hands into the hot, soapy water, deep in thought as I bared my soul, not to my Mother, but my Creator.

    As my family expanded to four children, I consented to using a dishwasher. My own children did not grow up as I did, sharing time at the kitchen sink after a meal. It often happens that way, though, as ways of doing things fall away from one generation to the next, replaced by a completely different method or approach. Some would call it progress.

    We live in a culture that operates at breakneck speed, where much of life is instantaneously available. There are positives in this, such as being able to share in my grandgirl’s first dance via text and pictures. However, with a cell phone often at hand, quiet solitude has been sacrificed.

    I still feel that time spent alone is invaluable. While I don’t do dishes by hand anymore, that doesn’t keep me from going to that solitary place within.

    As with all things in life, finding that kind of time is personal and individual. Many daily activities can be done with no outside distraction--walking, gardening, organizing drawers or cupboards, cleaning out a garage, driving. A time of peace and quiet may be difficult to find in a busy life, but it is available and can be had by all.

    It is my conviction that time alone with one’s thoughts before God is the greatest investment that can be made in life. Searching, seeking, questioning, reflecting—true, honest thought. It is priceless, time well spent.

 

Be still, and know that I am God!

~Psalm 46:10

 

"On 'What If?'"

The old timers would have called it a gullywasher--the kind of rain where the windows of heaven open and water comes down in sheets. If one is caught in it, they are drenched to the bone in a matter of minutes.

My task at hand was to remove the leaves from the sidewalks, and I had donned my rain gear. Landscape maintenance at the law office is a usual Sunday job, but I needed to do the work on Saturday instead. I had an urgent Sunday commitment, a trip to the Portland airport to pick up my Idaho grandgirl, visiting for Thanksgiving. Postponing the work was not an option, so I gritted my teeth and proceeded to deal with the last of the season’s fallen leaves.    

Glancing up, I saw my client motioning for me to come out of the rain and up onto the porch. The historic former home of the city's founding father has a deep covered porch across its front with benches on either side of the front door with its leaded glass windows. I accepted his silent invitation. We sat and visited, all the while watching the rain come down in torrents.  

We have had an employer/employee relationship for several years. I tend the area on weekends, and we have visited often, sharing the activities and events in the lives of our families and on a personal level as well. That kind of an exchange took place once again as we discussed Thanksgiving plans—the food and those we would share the day with. The reality of change was also a topic front and center as we compared the growth and development of children and grandchildren.  

As we chatted, our conversation shifted. With great emphasis and conviction, he stated: “I believe in one less god than most. I also believe that at the end of this life we all just become compost.” I remained silent, neither expressing my point of view nor attempting to dissuade his. 

That comment, however, was fodder for thought in the ensuing days. What is it about mankind, these humans that we are, that causes us to feel if we preface a statement with “I believe,” that somehow makes it so--that TRUTH is then stamped upon our personal credos with those two words?

"I believe" and "truth" are not automatically one and the same; they are not necessarily synonymous. 

When I was in my 20’s I was challenged to question and search, to seek out what is real and valid, to discern those concepts which are not. Nothing else matters. Only truth---absolute truth--will stand and hold up, not only under the test of time in the circumstances of everyday life but throughout eternity. So much of what I once believed fell away as it was replaced with truth. I am now in my 70's, and it is over fifty years later--I continue daily in that quest.

A friend once shared a pearl, one I’ve never forgotten:  “You can believe whatever you want.  You can believe with all your heart that the moon is made of blue cheese, but that doesn’t make it so.”

And so that Saturday afternoon conversation left me with a question, one that is applicable to each and every one of us: What if?  What if one's beliefs are just empty words--nothing more, nothing less?  What if they are fallacies? What if they are only what "I believe," with no correlation to anything that is true? What if they are in the same category of believing the moon is made of blue cheese? It is an important question worthy of consideration.

Personally, I know how I want to live. I want my life to be built on truth rather than on the dogma of man, the ever fluid positions of science, or a personal "belief." It is the difference between building on sand and building on a solid rock. 

My challenge to you is to question, to search and seek all that is true. Truth can only be found by going to the One who is truth--Almighty God.

What if?

 

"Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; 

knock, and the door will be opened for you."

Matthew 7:7

"Seek the Lord while he may be found, call

upon him while he is near."

Isaiah 55:6 

 

  

"On Learning What It Means To Trust"

My mother would call it fretting.  Or stewing.  I don’t recall the word "worry" being used in our home.  Perhaps it was too definitive, too stark, too much “calling it what it is.”  The other words leave some wiggle room; they just sound better.  At any rate, the hard, cold facts are that I have been in a state of worry for a while.  In fact, if I had a worry stone at hand, one of those rocks which is supposed to provide relief by giving one something to transfer one's thoughts and concerns to, I would have rubbed it so hard its size would have diminished right before my eyes.

My 70^th birthday is on its way, the one I call my 70^th gig.  Its approach has brought up a whole list of issues.  My peers will understand exactly what I’m talking about; the rest of you—well, you will understand in due time.  The issues are not contrived and deserve consideration—How much longer am I going to be able to work as a gardener; am I going to be OK financially; what health issues are awaiting me, what is going to happen to me as I continue growing older?  Worry, however, is not a productive process.

One of the things I truly like about my Creator is that He isn’t a Superman hero; He doesn’t come soaring into my life to save the day.  What He does do is allow me to be me as I process thoughts, go in circles, spin around into oblivion in that worry state.  When I’ve worn myself out, He interjects a thought.  And even then it is my choice to consider it or to continue ricocheting like a ball in an arcade game. 

The thought was quiet, but I could not deny hearing it:  “Do you trust me?”  Now I know better than to try to “pull the wool” over this One’s eyes by answering glibly.  He knows me better than I know myself, and there are no right or wrong answers, only honest ones.  And so I thought…and thought…and thought some more.  I could not even come up with a definition of what that word means.  There was a general concept, but absolutely nothing I could put into words.  My response was “I don’t know, but I would like to.”

trust:  to rely on, believe, place confidence in, depend upon 

Even with that definition I had no real understanding of its meaning.  It was just a word.

There were gentle reminders of experiences in my life, three of them in one day and my own off-handed comment that “I am being taken care of.”  The case was being built that my Heavenly Father is worthy of being trusted. 

Several thoughts began to form within me.  One was the knowledge that where there is worry there is no peace.  They do not co-exist.  Another is that I have so little control over anything in my life.  Circumstances can change instantly, and there is nothing I can do to alter them.  My life and its future are out of my hands.  And then there is the fact that to not believe God is the same as calling Him a liar.  That word "trust" began to take form, have substance.     

As I began learning what it means to trust, I realized that trust has begun to develop within me.  I did not expect that or know it was going to happen, but it has.  Some may question why I would want to place my trust in One who is unseen; others may find it absurd as they doubt His existence.  For me, He is part of my life and the way I live my life.

It is the nature of man to be self-sufficient, independent, relying upon ourselves.  "No, thank you.  I can do it myself."  We do not readily or easily turn over control of our lives to another or place absolute, unwavering trust in another.  However, the bottom line of it all is that I am either going to trust myself or trust the One who made me.

So what does it mean to trust my Father?  It means I am relying on Him to take care of me, to watch out for me, to be beside me each and every step of my life.  It means knowing these things. 

I cannot say I am there yet, fully living in a level of trust. In fact I doubt if I will ever be, but I am in a better place than I have been in recent days as I learn what it means to trust.  And I hope that the next time He asks, "Do you trust me?"  my response will be "Yes."

"In you, Lord God, do I put my trust."

"Just a Thought"

In addition to gardening tasks, the sewing machine is another place where I do a lot of thinking.  Recently I consented to be a vendor at a Christmas bazaar at the school one of my grandgirls attends, so I am at the machine, producing items to fill my space.

My son-in-law's aunt just had her 100th birthday, and the family celebrated by taking her bowling, one of her all-time favorite pastimes.  She's no patsy either--a video was shared as she threw the ball down the lane, resulting in a strike.  

I found myself thinking about this aunt while sewing.  100 years old!  My mind wandered to those whose lives are taken in infancy, youth, as young adults.  I think we, as humans, find it impossible to make sense out of this seeming discrepancy.  "Why," I asked, "are some lives so short?" 

Within a split second the answer:  "No lives are short.  They are all eternal." 

Something to think about.

"On Turning 70"

It happened once again; in fact, it happens almost every time I watch television in the evening.  I fell asleep.  I roused, realizing the need to head for bed and, as I did so, began unfurling my body.  Standing up and attempting to straighten, I thought, “Man, I really am acting like a 70-year-old.”

This landmark of a birthday is just around the corner for me.  I’ve been spending the past several months declaring “I’m almost 70.”  I do that every year, an acceptance of the approaching birthday.  By saying it aloud, there are no surprises, and, most certainly, no denial.  When it arrives, I simply step into it, a classification prepared and awaiting.  This year's exception, that of being 70. 

I know full well that age is just a number, so I have no problem with turning 70, and I am not fearful of death.  Several friends have preceded me in this turn of events, and I have supported them all.  I am discovering, however, that it is a different story when it is happening to me.

My mind is in a completely different place than it has been with any other birthday, and I find that to be a place of wondering,  with both conscious and unconscious considerations.   My thought as I crawled off the couch bears that out.

My father lived into his mid-80’s.  For what seemed like years prior to his death, I remember statements like, “This will be the last car I’m going to buy.  It’s going to last me until I die.”  And it did.  Those comments made me daft.  And yet, at almost-70, I find myself in that same line of thinking.  It isn’t something I am choosing, but the thoughts do come. Viewing life through the lens that carries with it the reality of the possibility of being "last" is a  new experience .

I find myself wondering how many more years are left for me on this earth, how many more years I will share in the lives of my grandgirls, what awaits me health-wise.  With no sense of being morbid, I wonder what is going to happen to me in these last years of physical life.  Oh, the thoughts that are stirred when one turns 70.

The older I have become, the fuller my life.  I discuss often with my Heavenly Father the fact that I want to continue learning, growing, becoming--I don’t want that to ever end.  I know I don’t have the truth of what my next life will be like, so I can only view it from this very limited perspective.

This much I know:  Life is life.  I will continue living it each and every step of the way.  And when that landmark birthday arrives, I shall treat it as a Rolodex file, one day flipping over into another and then another.  Life is good, and any way I look at it, the best IS yet to come.

  

"On Becoming as a Little Child"

He was exhausted, bone-weary, the clamor and crush of the crowds wearing. There was no question about His calling, His purpose, and yet there were times He longed for the solace and solitude of the shop, the place where chunks of wood were turned into creations of utility and beauty underneath His hands, before His eyes. That was where He had been taught, prepared for what was to come, where He visited with His Heavenly Father. It was a place of peace, of quiet. 

His physical body exuded strength, the muscles taut and sinewy, developed by wielding the primitive carpentry hand tools of His time. His spiritual body was fit as well, strong enough to face and withstand evil in its purest, rawest form.

The life of Jesus, the carpenter’s son, had changed dramatically, and He knew when it had happened: His baptism by John when the heavens opened, and the Spirit descended upon Him like a dove, followed by a voice declaring, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased"; the encounter with the enemy while in the desert for forty days; the first of many signs, when He went to a wedding with His mother and turned the water into wine.

Masses of people followed Him wherever He went, craving the teaching, bringing the sick to be healed, seeking deliverance from demons. While knowing He had been sent for mankind, the daily rigor and the relentless demands were tiring, the places of retreat minimal.

The children were a delight. They brought a smile to His face, made Him laugh, their purity and honesty evidenced. He loved watching them play, listening to their discussions and conversations. They weren’t there to test Him with religious or political questions; they didn’t ask Him to prove who He was or why He had come; they didn't bait Him with verbal traps. 

Parents began bringing their little ones to Him, asking that He bless them. The disciples who followed along beside Him expressed criticism, sending them away. He rebuked them saying, “Let the children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God.”

Becoming as a child--Just exactly what does that mean? Children live in the moment. They know no political correctness, love openly, and gauge carefully and instinctively those they allow into their world. In succinct terms it means trusting with one's heart and not one's head. 

Consider the following perspective of a child--“I don’t understand why all people don’t just follow God. It’s just so easy." This is one who has taken to challenging others of the need to "just stay in your own box," her way of expressing that each of us should take care of our own lives and not be concerned about the lives of others, an admonition of great wisdom. At the ripe old age of 8, she is a living example of the very thing I am speaking of.  

While children have no comprehension or understanding of the meaning of the word trust, they are just that--trusting, their faith direct and simplistic. Although some may view this as naïve', lacking an intellectual approach, it is the ultimate representation of a child placing his/her trust in the care of a loving parent.  

The mind is the battlefield, where war is waged, and children are yet to be encumbered by the mental process of thought, doubt, contradiction. They simply believe. How difficult is that? Difficult for some, easy for others, but an important choice to be made with long-term ramifications. 

Consider the need to become as a child.

"...it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs." Matthew 19:14   

  

"Clella's Aunt Kay's Fruitcake"

This electronic age has brought about a plethora of reconnections in my life,  one of which has been with a high school friend, dating back over 50 years ago.  Clella and I took piano lessons from the same piano teacher; we shared many of our classes; the two of us were planning on being college roommates. 

As happens in life, we went our separate ways.  However, that senior year she shared an absolutely wonderful fruitcake recipe with me, one which I made for several years.  The fruitcake was replaced by decorated Christmas sugar cookies as children came into my household, but I have always remembered it.

"It's that time of year," the time when the holidays are approaching, and I thought about her recipe again the other day.  

Here's to good food, days gone by, and reconnections.  Enjoy! 

Clella's Aunt Kay's Fruitcake

3/4 lb. dates                                              1 c. chopped nuts
1 tsp. soda                                                1 jar fruit mix
1 c. boiling water                                       1/2 c. cherries
1/2 c. oil                                                     1 c. seedless raisins
1 c. sugar                                                   1/2 c. currants
1 egg                                                          1/4 c. white raisins
1 tsp. vanilla                                               1 1/2 c. flour                                   
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. lemon juice

1.  Grease and flour sides, line bottom of 10" tubed pan with waxed paper.
2.  Chop dates in coarse pieces.
3.  Add soda to boiling water, pour over dates, let stand until cool, not cold.
4.  Plump raisins and currants, drain well.
5.  Mix oil, sugar, egg, vanilla, lemon juice, salt; add date mixture (with liquid), drained fruit;
     add flour (1/3 at a time), stirring well.  Add nuts, fruit mix, cherries.
6.  Bake 1/2 hour at 350; reduce heat to 310, bake another 1 1/4-1 1/2 hours.  If cracks
     appear, reduce temperature, bake longer. 
7.  Cool 30 minutes in pan, turn out and cool.