"At the Dairy Queen"

Dairy Queen ice cream is my most favorite ice cream in the world--period.  I love the smooth texture, the way it melts in my mouth, and the memories that surface whenever I indulge. 

As a little girl, my Dad would often treat the family at the local DQ on our way home from Sunday evening church services. My mother always loved hot fudge sundaes, and I opted for strawberry milkshakes or chocolate dipped cones.  My oldest brother worked there while in high school so that was an additional incentive to make that stop.

The 5-mile-drive home was the perfect amount of time to relish my cone.  I'm not sure, but I may be the only person who has turned eating an ice cream cone into a ritualistic art.  I'm probably the only one who still eats it at age 70 the same way I did at age 5.  I always start with the curl on top first.  Dad would often tease me by taking that first bite before handing it over to me.  I had forgotten that until just now.

When I was sick with tonsillitis he would surprise me with a hand-packed quart of the stuff.  That was a real treat on his part because, as a farmer with work awaiting, he would have had to make a special stop on his way home from his day job at the plywood mill to get it--a personal sacrifice of time in order to make a daughter feel better.  And it always did.

It was 6:30 in the evening, the end of a long workday which had begun at 8.  The day was a bit warmer, near 80 degrees, and the thought of a Dairy Queen ice cream cone hit the spot. 

As I pulled into the parking lot, heading for the drive-through, I saw her—at least I determined it was a female as I got closer, one in her 20's or maybe even younger. The air temperature was warm, but she was completely covered with heavy garb, carrying a garbage bag, obviously filled.  The hood of a sweatshirt was pulled down over her face, hiding as much of herself as possible.  She walked with an assertive stride.  I wouldn’t call it confidence so much as a “stay out of my way and don’t mess with me” posture.  I can still see her image in my mind.

The drive-through line was quite long, so waiting was the norm.  As I pulled up to place my order—yes, for an ice cream cone—I happened to glance in my rearview mirror.  The young woman had placed her garbage bag down and begun to dig through the garbage can.  She wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed; she was hungry.  Finding some type of food, she pulled it out, looked at it and smelled it, then crammed it in her mouth.  She had the look of a ravenous animal.

My thoughts went a variety of directions, from recognition of her hunger to a personal action on my part.  "Do I have any extra change?  Should I do something?  Oh, the line moved--I need to pull forward."   It would be glorious if I could say I went to her and offered to buy her a meal.  I didn’t.  Her action repulsed me, that of watching someone eat directly from a public garbage container.

Since getting home, I’ve been thinking about that young woman and my reaction and lack of response.  When Christ walked the earth He went to the lowliest of the low—those afflicted with leprosy, a skin disease; prostitutes and adulterers; tax collectors, an occupation abhorred in those times; those in a full-blown state of insanity; beggars.  In fact, He was criticized by the religious folk of His time for eating and drinking with sinners.

I've seen bumper stickers questioning "What would Jesus do?"   I have no idea what He would have done in this same situation.  But I do know He didn't turn his back on those who were misfits, those who weren't part of "the elite."

As I sit writing this, a guy is walking down the sidewalk in front of my house.  Wrapped in a blanket, he is in a conversation with himself.  The blanket is dry today because it hasn't rained.  He is a fixture in the neighborhood, rain or shine.  When it is raining the water drips off not only him but the water-soaked blanket as he traverses the streets.  Yes, I have seen him before--many times.  Have I ever thought of him as a person?  Have I ever even considered asking God's help for him?  And how did I view that young woman?  Certainly not with any real consideration as a fellow human being, created in the same way by God as I am.  

The real "food for thought" is this--What if the shoe was on the other foot, and I was the one at the Dairy Queen, my life packed into a garbage bag or the one walking the street with only a blanket?  

It is oh, so easy to love the lovely and the lovable; not so easy to love those who are unlovely and unlovable.

I have a long ways to go.

"Teacher, we know that you are honest.  You teach the truth about what God wants people to do.  And you treat everyone with the same respect, no matter who they are."

"On Living With Mortality"

Across the board, without exception, regardless of our age, station in life, gender, or where we live on the planet, it is something we all do, you know.  As part of this human race each and every one of us lives with mortality, whether or not we acknowledge it, deny it, accept it, or even realize it. 

mortality:  the condition of being susceptible to death

It has been said that the only two things we can be assured of in this life are death and taxes.  From the time of conception man lives under that known reality, a death sentence of the physical body.  The one unknown is the time, if it comes sooner or later.

Arguments are made for and against causes, issues, and various points of view the world over. Mankind disagrees on almost everything, but there is no disagreement on the state of man’s mortality.  It is never challenged nor argued; it cannot be.  Mortality is a universal equalizer. 

A family member, one in his late 80’s, had passed away, and a mental picture was given to me. It was of the sea, the tide rolling in.  As the waves worked their way in and then receded, the beach was swept clean.  “Look around,” I was told.  “How many people do you see who are 125 years old?”  Mortality:  one picture is worth a thousand words.  There is not a one who won’t be taken from this physical life.

A childhood friend was lamenting the changes taking place in the physical body.  And change is part and parcel of aging.  “Our body really is the only part of us that ages,” I expressed.  “Oh, that’s good news,” I was told, with a touch of sarcasm.  Yes, it is good news, as the essence of me, my soul and spirit can neither be touched nor affected as my body is, and they are eternal.

So how does one live with mortality without negativity, becoming overcome by depression, developing a grim approach to life, or viewing life through lenses of morbidity? 

As with all things in life, each of us approaches our own mortality in an individual, personal manner. 

For some a “bucket” list is created, with the intent to do as much as is humanly possible in this lifetime, fulfilling wishes and desires.  For others, a deep resignation takes place as fear of the unknown lurks, hidden in the shadows.  Still others develop an “I’m just not going to think about it” attitude.  Personally, my mortality is countered by my belief in immortality.   

immortality:  the condition of not being susceptible to death 

Within me is a childhood memory about my grandmother.  When I was very young, I remember being told of her near death experience.  She had been seriously ill with a severe fever, and it wasn't certain if she was going to live or not.  When she finally began to recover she told of having been in an idyllic place with green fields everywhere and a warm light. 

There are more than a few recorded incidents of those whose bodies have shut down and of their experiences in another dimension, another realm, of life after death before returning to this physical existence on earth.    

One notable incident is that of a renowned neurosurgeon who was in a coma for several days with bacterial meningitis. There is no recovery from this condition; the outcome is either death or a vegetative state.  However, not only did he fully recover, but his skepticism about near death experiences was wiped away as he entered that realm called eternity.  His experience is worth reading at ebenalexander.com.  That is immortality.

I am of the belief—no, I have the knowledge and conviction that the end of my physical life is only the beginning of another way of life, one which is governed by immortality. 

My body is aging, changing, but I’m not.  I do not have a fear of death and, if possible, when that happens, I would like to be the one who returns to tell you all that awaits.  But then my experiences never make a believer out of others.  You have to have your own.

"The bodies we now have are weak and can die.  But they will be changed into bodies that are eternal.  Then the scriptures will come true, 'Death has lost the battle.'"

"The Thought for Today"

When right is wrong....and wrong is right--watch what becomes of our world.  Just watch.  Are you watching?

"On Hearing vs. Listening"

hear: v. To perceive sounds through the ear.
listen: v. To pay attention to a sound or speech.

There is hearing. And then there is listening.

Many years ago I was told, “Listening is an art.” Nodding my head in agreement, I smiled, feigning comprehension and understanding. In truth, as a talker, I had no idea what that meant. Since then I have learned not only the importance and value of listening, but how to listen.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and realized that what you were saying was of no concern to them? Perhaps you could sense the lack of interest as their eyes wandered. You may have noted their distraction and absence of focus as they waited--or may have even interrupted--to speak of the things that were important to them. They may have heard, but they did not listen. You had the choice to either enter into a verbal competition or turn silent. Then, as the exchange ended, you were left with the real sense that neither you nor what you had to say mattered.

When one is given a voice, one that is listened to, something inexplicably cathartic takes place within that person. This is particularly apparent when one is in a difficult situation or set of circumstances. Objectivity often takes place as personal details emerge; a new perspective may also come into play. Things don't seem as monumental, overwhelming, or consuming. They lose their sting.

 

Given the freedom to express yourself and to be heard is invaluable. Isn’t that what the mental health field with therapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists is all about? 

The art of listening isn't reserved exclusively for friends and family. Opportunities for listening abound and include encounters with all types of people in everyday life--at the grocery store, the gas station, or gym; at work and after work. In my experience these encounters are usually with individuals I don't know and will never see again

 

Very personal things may be shared, one stranger to another. It is important to respect these revelations with confidence, to "lock them up inside," as a friend says. Even though there isn't a personal relationship involved, a baring of the soul deserves respect. The need isn't for an answer or a solution; the need is to be heard and listened to.

How does one become a listener? I feel the basic, first step is that of setting self aside. If my main concern is about me, telling my story, my experiences, my thoughts and ideas, then I will never really listen. It takes a conscious effort at first to push self aside and just listen. Being patient is important as well. If I am rushed and in a hurry, the impatience shouts. The unspoken message I give is, "I don't have time for you."

Most people simply need a sounding board and don’t even realize it. The need to be listened to, regardless of age--from the youngest to the eldest--runs deep within humankind. It is a need for affirmation that "I am of worth. I matter."  

My challenge is this: If you aren't already a listener, try becoming one. Set self aside. I think you’ll be surprised at the effect it has on your own life. It certainly has the potential to make a difference in the lives of others.   

    

      

"It's Been a Good Day"

My eyelids were getting heavy as I sat, knitting in my rocking chair.  Knitting cotton dishcloths is something I’ve begun doing recently.  Instant gratification, they are easily finished in a short period of time, without much thought involved.  My mother taught me to knit as a little girl.  The first projects were cotton dishcloths, so in a sense I've gone back to where I began.

The only sounds were of the dryer and a soft whir of the heat pump, an occasional car driving by outside.  An attempt to call a niece had resulted in a message left on the answering machine so it was just me and the knitting.  Thoughts of my day rambled through my mind with no real connection or order.   

Earlier, coming into the house at the end of a workday, I heard myself say, “It’s been a good day.”  And now, as I knitted and rocked, I considered my day and the events of it. 

My day began by spending time at the piano, preparing for a recital.  I expect to play a composition titled Creation Sings, the work of a family member.  The music fills my being, and I had recorded it on my phone, listening to its beauty throughout the day.

On the way to a work project I had picked up a prescription for a client/friend.  As I stopped it by her home, we chatted and laughed.  She is an older person in years, yet young in spirit.  I like her a lot, and it is always a treat to be around her. 

Often when I make that assessment of a "good day," it pertains to the amount of work I have accomplished.  And on that one level, today was no different.  The home of one of my first clients in the area is being prepared for market.  The yard and garden needs to be made sale-ready, and so a chunk of the day was spent making that happen. Great progress had taken place as bags and bags of weeds and debris were removed, revealing rockwork and hidden flowering plants. 

A young man had been called in to help with the project.  It was hands-and-knees kind of work and conversation came easily.  The subject of God came up early in the day:  "It is my belief....; what do you think?  If I am to understand you....; I disagree with you on that point."   Ideas, thoughts, and beliefs were readily and easily exchanged.  In some areas our points of view are quite dissimilar and yet we shared and laughed, getting to know one another as people.

As we went our separate ways at the end of the workday I thanked him and told him how much I had appreciated our time in the garden.  "It is so nice meeting someone who is opinionated in their beliefs and convictions and yet open to listen," I was told.  "What is the opposite of that?" I asked.  "Obstinate," he said.

The day came to a close with a text from a grandgirl:  "When are you going to be home, Grandma?"  She wanted to talk on the phone, and we did.  Being told you are loved by a grandgirl makes any day a "good day."  Contact with two out-of-state friends and daughters only added to that appraisal. 

My days aren't  filled with extraordinary events.   "Exciting" is not a word one would apply to my life, and at this time of the year the days are usually filled with work and more work.  My life, however, is rich, filled with gifts of music, interactions with family and friends, laughter, and the knowledge that my day is planned and ordered.  This is not the first time I’ve told my Father “It has been a good day,” and I doubt it will be the last.

Life is good.

“This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." 

"On Choices"

Time spent in my own garden is rare.  As a self-employed gardener, my clients’ gardens and their needs are always placed before my own.  At this time of the year the to-do list for them is staggering.  I put blinders on my eyes as I pull into my driveway.  It is that bad.    

I’m not sure how it happened that I arrived home at a decent hour today, but I did.  There was still plenty of daylight left and, after feeding myself, I had the energy to head outdoors.

The decision was made to work in the part of my backyard most visible from inside.  The weeds are thick so it was hands-and-knees kind of work, the kind that frees one’s mind for thought.

Recently I read a meme with the quote, “It costs $0.00 to be decent.”  While a true statement, it costs the same amount to be a jerk.  The difference between the two is the result of a choice made.

choice:  an option; a decision; an opportunity to choose or select something  

Choice is a part of everyday living—What am I going to eat; how do I dress; where do I go; what do I do; how do I get there and when?  As you consider it, choice is presented in a non-stop manner in daily life. 

In addition, society has made it a priority to make certain each and every person is satisfied, young and old alike. The list of choices seems endless when purchasing a car, carpeting, furniture, an appliance for the home, planning a vacation.  Mankind's narcissistic appetite for self-satisfaction seems to be driving this state.

There is a prevalent approach in dealing with children, allowing them to choose their food, their clothing, the activities of their lives.  Treating children as people is a positive; however,  I wonder if it doesn't become a bit overwhelming for a kid.  I know it can be for an adult.    

Consider, however, the choices made as to how one lives his/her life, not just the decisions affecting the physical, outer aspect of it.

As I dug through the weeds, I found myself thinking about how we choose the kind of people we want to be throughout our lives, beginning at an early age.  Sometimes they are conscious decisions, other times unconscious.  They often are a result of a personal experience in our lives, a choice made which places us on a path other than the one we had been on.

When I was a young girl, my older brother brought a typewriter into our home to work on a school project.  I vividly remember it sitting on the card table in the middle of the living room with instructions to not touch it.  It was the first time I had seen such a machine at close range, and my curiosity took over.  I couldn’t resist messing with it.  When questioned, I denied my actions.  The lie felt worse than the disobedience, and the seed of truth and honesty was planted within and began to grow.

Children can be cruel, ridiculing and making fun of one another.  For the child on the receiving end of such treatment, a choice is often made—to never treat others in that same manner or to “get ‘em before they get you.”  I know one young woman whose mantra is “Do unto others as you’d have others do unto you,” the result of being treated badly not only by peers but an adult teacher as well.  Besides being the foundation of how she lives her life, it is what she teaches her children as well.  It is a choice she made. 

I choose if I am going to be kind or unkind; forgiving instead of bitter, spiteful, vindictive; loving and compassionate rather than hateful and distant or antagonistic; cooperative and humble instead of proud and boastful; generous rather than selfish and self-serving; decent rather than a jerk.  I could go on and on.  How I live my life, the kind of person I choose to be is in my lap, in my mirror.  That never falls on another person’s doorstep.

Free will and free choice is a provision given to man by his Creator.  Use it carefully and wisely, not only in determining allegiance to Him—or not—but in living life.  Choices matter. 

"If you are not willing to serve Him, then choose today who you will serve.  As for me and my family, we will serve the Eternal."