"On the Christmas Spirit"

spirit:  n.  The manner or style of something.

It is that time of the year, Christmas. There is enough sugar and fat in the excessive amounts of candy, cookies, and goodies being produced in kitchens everywhere to clog the arteries of the strongest of men. Christmas baking for me consists of melting chocolate chips in the microwave and adding a variety of ingredients to create delectable, tasty treats. If not enough to cause a heart attack, they have the potential to at least make a person very sick.

As a gardener, I dispose of grass clippings, weeds, and branches at a local business. The debris is shredded and converted to compost or other planting mediums. I maintain it’s the perfect enterprise. They charge me for my dumping, then I pay for a completed product, one for which I have provided the basic resource.

The dump site is managed by several young men, most of them in their twenties. As tends to happen while I am out and about, I have become acquainted with some of them as they share parts of their lives while I am paying to dump my load. I know that one of them was recently married; another is taking some time off from college in order to get a better perspective of the direction he wants to go; another played football in high school and now spends his weekends in a “royal battle” of sorts. They greet me with a smile and know by now I will refuse their offer to help me unload.

A large container for gift-giving was purchased and will be filled to the brim with candy then dropped off at the refuse site today. One could say I have the Christmas spirit.

Being filled with the Christmas spirit is not a phrase typically applied to me. Never a “bah, humbug” person, the holiday itself is simply not that important to me. Lights, decorating, the tree—all things I can live without. A daughter expressed it well when she said, “You always did and have put on a good Christmas face for your kids and grandkids.” It’s good to know I haven’t mortally damaged my family’s love for the holiday.

A seeming contradiction, ornaments are made for each of the children and grandchildren every year, my share of gifts are added under the tree, a tradition of selfless gift-giving for the grandgirls is being established by giving them money to donate to others. I do not have a love for this holiday. But then, I have no love for any other holiday either.

Holidays come and holidays go, and so it will be with Christmas.

Over the years I have wrestled with what could only be perceived as a negative outlook, as I questioned the point of bringing a tree into the house, the obscene amount of “stuff” collected under that tree, all culminating in said gifts being dispersed, many to be forgotten before the next holiday comes along.

This is where I have landed, however—one day out of 365 is not a statement of a person’s life. Kindness, generosity, empathy, caring, selflessness, and love are important qualities that need to be manifest in one’s daily life and not limited to presenting a beautifully wrapped package to be opened on Christmas. They are traits that should be applied to all of life and the living of it, not just during a particular season.

And so, in a personal gesture, also known as “having the Christmas spirit,” I head out with my very large box of candy, delivering it to the guys at Rexius Fuel. It is my way of thanking them for revealing parts of their lives to me and for allowing me to get to know them. People matter. Holidays not so much.

  

"For Your Eyes Only"

It was, in a word--horrible.  While I am certain there are many things in life much worse, the Sunday my grandgirls were told it was time to say "Goodbye" to their family pet was as terrible, as awful as I had expected it to be.

I had been asked to stay with the girls while Mom and Dad took Tank to the vet.  It was time.  At 14, his vision had diminished due to cataracts.  His hearing almost gone, he hadn't heard me when I came in the door.  Arthritis in his back hips made it increasingly difficult for him to carry his massive body and to navigate the steps outside.  Tumors were developing, and the bones were visible on his once-vigorous frame, even though he ate.

Tank's deteriorating physical condition had been evident for months, and the family openly talked about the inevitability of the situation, that he was coming to the end of his lifespan. Still, as often happens in many areas of life, reality was a different story, a shock, a surprise.

The girls were given as much time as needed.  They hugged him, covering his body with theirs.  Lying on the floor next to him, talking to him and petting him, their grief and sobs were gut-wrenching and heart-breaking.  Now 10 and 12, he had been with them their entire lives. How does one let go of a best friend, a companion?

The thought quietly entered my mind, and I shared it with the family.  A letter, written by each of the girls, to Tank, their "forever" buddy, telling him all the things they wanted to say, all the things they wanted him to know and hear.

And so, after my daughter and son-in-law left, the grandgirls sat down at the table and began to write.  The crying subsided as they wrote their letters to Tank, expressing their feelings and their thoughts in words, on paper.  I told them what they wrote was personal and could be tucked away forever, shared with no one, if they so chose.

"That was helpful," the little one said, as she folded up her letter, heading off to put it in her memory box.  The older one agreed as she put hers in a small baggie along with some of her pup's fur.

I am a proponent of this kind of writing.  It cannot be called "writing a journal."  Journals are diaries.  This is venting, emptying, unloading from the very most inner depths of a person, a cleansing and cleaning out, if you will.  Though there may be no scientific data to support it, it is my experience and conviction that something positive happens when one voices in such a manner, transferring from within to paper.  After all, isn't that the basis, the essence of poetry, music, composition?

Many years ago, I was in the darkest of dark places.  All alone, I questioned all that I believed to be true.  I know and understand hopelessness, dreading the beginnings of yet another day.

I began writing, simply writing.  Everything I thought, everything I felt, all the doubts, all the questions, all the frustrations began pouring out of me onto the paper.  And, for me, all of the anger I felt towards a God who I was certain had neither heard my prayers nor answered them, who I knew cared nothing about me.

I have no idea how long this continued, but it was over quite a lengthy period of time. Despondent, filled with only negative, troubled over my life and how I was living it, I remember sitting at the kitchen table and filling page after page.  Punctuation, grammar, and form be damned, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.  

There came a time when I was finished, though I didn't realize it when it happened.  There was no final chapter, but the need to go there no longer existed.  Just as one does not go digging through a garbage can, there was no need to re-read all that had been released, and it went in the trash.  No one ever read the writings, and only God and I even knew of their existence.  

By that time an inner healing had begun.  We all know that physical wounds cannot heal as long as infection is present.  So it is with our inner beings.  That which is negative is toxic and must be removed.  Personally, that happened as I wrote letters to God, honest and real. I had no idea when I began that I would end up at His doorstep, but I did.

For those of you in a chronic set of circumstances, behavior, or memories which continue to haunt, daunt, or taunt you, robbing you of joy and peace in your life and the living of it, may I make a suggestion?   Find a quiet place, a piece of paper and pen or pencil and just begin writing whatever comes to your mind.

While talking with a friend or even a professional has value and merit, I feel there is no substitute for pencil and paper, baring one's soul in black and white, sweeping out the recesses and corners of one's mind.  Try it.  You just might be surprised at the outcome.
It costs nothing, and for me, it was one of the most valuable experiences of my life.  

And it is for your eyes only.

"On Caring"

care:  v.  to be concerned about, have an interest in; to be mindful of
          n.  close attention; concern; responsibility; the object of watchful attention or anxiety

"Thanks for checking in on me.  I need that sometimes."  The succinctness and directness of her response surprised me.  All I had done was send a text, inquiring as to how her leg was. "We all do," I answered.

The 12-year-old grandgirl had taken a knee to her thigh in a basketball game the day prior, and I had been wondering how she was.  I was watching another part of the game when it happened. When my eyes turned back to her, she was on the floor, writhing in pain as she grabbed her leg.  She's a tough one, not prone to drama, so I knew she was genuinely hurt.  I wanted to see how the injury felt after Mom and Dad's physical therapy and a night's rest.  

Caring.  To care.  About someone or something.  The thing about caring is either you do or you don't.  Caring cannot be fabricated or feigned.  Either there is a genuine concern or there isn't, and that is evidenced and felt.  Saying one cares is not proof of nor verification that one does either. "Words are cheap."  

There is no expense involved, no purchase necessary when it comes to caring about a fellow human being or the circumstances in their lives, but its importance and value can be quite substantial and should never be underestimated.    

Recently, a friend was experiencing a difficult time. "You doing OK?" I asked.  "Yes.  Your caring makes me feel better."  It was an unexpected response, but one that has provoked much thought.  

It takes so little to make a difference in other's days, in their lives.  In addition, real, valid, and genuine concern is a bold contrast to that which is counterfeit, superficial, contrived.     

The nature of mankind is to be wrapped up in "me, myself, and I."  Living outside of that "box" is a most rewarding and vital experience, providing personal benefits as well.  I am most enriched when I have shared myself with others, not in the giving of material things, but from within. 

It is always those things which money cannot buy which are the most valuable.  


"He cares for you." 



  

"On Fervor"

fervor:  an intense, heated emotion; passion; ardor; passionate enthusiasm for a cause

2016 is the year our country, the United States of America, is voting in a new President. And we are everything except "united."

There have been endless rallies, with crowds of people gathered together to burst forth into applause when a point of agreement is expressed in a speech.  Planned, designed, and orchestrated with music and balloons to be the equivalent of a New Year's Eve party there is cheering, yelling, smiling; jeering and ridiculing the opposition; maligning in order to validate one's position. And these are just the candidates.  

The line has been drawn in this Presidential election of 2016.  There are few who are half-way or half-hearted in their support  Many are as much against a candidate as they are for.  

Politics is a messy business, but this one seems to have brought out the worst in people. A total lack of civility has surfaced as personal attacks are made upon one another by our citizenry.  Disagreement is often expressed in the form of vile, vicious comments.  Social media has made it easy to hide in anonymity.

Struck by a single picture, one of a candidate and their supporters clapping and yelling with maximum enthusiasm, I had this thought:  Oh, that mankind had that same kind of fervor for those things which are long-term, eternal, for the spiritual.

Having God and the things of God as the focus of passion, however, is neither viewed as being important nor politically correct.

And so we shall see the results of misdirected fervor of the mortal, temporal kind.

God help us all.   



"A wise man builds his house upon a rock."

  

  


      

"On Death"

death:  cessation of life and all associated processes

No longer with us; passed over, passed away, or simply, passed; on to a better place; free at last.  There are a variety of terms used to express death, many of them to soften the starkness of that word, of that experience.

There has been a death in our family.  Our stepmother has died.  At the age of 98, she was the last of our parent's generation.  The "torch" has been passed on to my two brothers and me.  We are now the elders of the Shanks' family. 

Death fascinates and intrigues me.  It always has--a curiosity, not a morbidity.  The universal equalizer, not a single person on the planet is exempt.  We come into this world with nothing; we leave with nothing.

How is it that from one breath, one heartbeat to the next the very being, the essence of a person is removed, and all that is left is the house, the body?  While some may feel they can bring about their own death, they are only dealing with the physical.   No man is able to remove their own person.

I have no fear of death and, at this point in time, there is no fear of the process of dying either.  Neither do I have any pretty pictures of life after death.  One would think I would, given the many near-death experiences I've read about and my religious upbringing.  

What I do know is this:  The One who created me and delivered me into this world is going to usher me out.  My finite mind cannot begin to grasp what is next.  I know of His presence there and nothing more.    

Where there is birth there is also death, and it is my belief that physical death is not an end, but a beginning, the beginning of the rest of time, of life with God or without Him.  

My family and I will gather at a funeral service tomorrow.  The thought is always present at these occasions of  "Who's next?"  Only God knows.

This I do know:  Given the universal experience of death, what is truly important is that of being prepared to meet Him.  May He do that for each one of you.    


"Prepare to meet thy God."

"Everyone must die once, and after that be judged by God."  

"Oh, death, where is your victory?  Oh, grave, where is your sting?"  

       










    

"On Being Spiritually Alive"

spiritual:  of or pertaining to the spirit or soul; not material

physical:  having to do with the body, the material world

religious:  concerning religions; a system of faith and worship 

The look on her face was one of petrified fear, a frozen expression of sheer terror, that of the proverbial deer "caught in the headlights."  As I slammed on the brakes I have no doubt my own face was a mirror of hers.  An older woman on a bicycle, her balance affected, she had stopped immediately in front of my truck and dismounted.  Giving me one of those "if looks could kill" glares, she then got back on and rode on down the sidewalk, seething with anger. I saw her mouth an expletive, and I couldn't say I blamed her.

Accessing the street via an alley, vision had been blocked by a large climbing rose. Fortunately for the both of us I was at a virtual crawl as I moved forward onto the street. She hadn't seen me, and I hadn't seen her until we were on top of one another.  Even at my very slow rate of speed I was a split second away from knocking her down and, as she was wearing no helmet, it had the potential of being a calamitous situation. 

Pulling out onto the street I drove down a block and turned onto a side street, waiting for her to ride by.  As i rolled down my window, I shouted "I am soooo sorry."  The anger evaporated, and the two of us agreed "It's all good."

Heading on to my next job my being was filled with gratitude to my Heavenly Father for once again being a part of my everyday life.

There is physical.  And then there is spiritual.

We all know what it means to be physically alive.  What does it mean to be spiritually alive? And what difference does it make?  Does it matter?

Wearing certain kinds of clothing, covering one's head or entire body; stopping to pray 5 times a day; completing classes of doctrine; living a monastic life of celibacy; fasting; setting aside days of the week, month, or year as special holidays; eating or not eating specific foods; following rules--these are religion. One can be very religious and be spiritually dead.

We were created spiritual beings, with the purpose of having a friendship with our Creator. To be spiritually alive means one's spirit has been quickened, brought to life, and a connection is made with Him.  

As with the physical, mankind is incapable of making life happen.  Becoming spiritually alive is as simple as opening up one's innermost self and inviting God in.  He is life, He is light, and He is a gentleman in that He never goes where He isn't invited.

A spiritual life is not one of accomplishment, to be flaunted and waved around like a banner. It is a gift.

Living life with God is not idyllic, filled with air, fairy tales of the hereafter, balloons, and lullabies.  For me, that perception fell apart with the statement "God does not keep you from hard times.  He does walk you through them."  

And that is just one reason being spiritually alive makes a difference.  It matters.  

Physical is temporary; spiritual is eternal.  And that is another reason.

Living life with God, One who knows me, who loves me, who has my best interest at heart --or living it on my own, alone.  That is the most important reason of all.



    
"If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body." 
                   I Corinthians 15:44







    

"On a Gift From the Heart"

When it was delivered to me it was neatly folded, in a type of pillow case made of a blue chambray fabric, pinned closed with a safety pin along the open edge.  A small plastic bag secured to the case held a picture of several women displaying the gift along with a letter and a small booklet, a Gospel of John.  

Written to the recipient and signed by the ones who made it, the letter read:  "Dear Quilt of Honor Recipient.  'The Threadbearers' are a group of quilters that meet at Harbor Baptist Church in Winchester Bay, Oregon.  We want to thank you for your service to our country. May this quilt bring comfort and love.  Your service is appreciated.  May God richly bless you."  The emotion I experienced surprised me.  It was, after all, just a quilt, pieces of fabric sewn together to make a blanket.  But it was much more than that.  The love and the sincerity with which it was made and given was palpable, powerful, and real, a gift from the heart.  

Carefully removing it from its cloth wrapping, I unfolded it. Constructed with fabric of a patriotic theme, the craftsmanship was outstanding.  It was beautiful, quite simply.... beautiful. On the underside corner a handmade label was sewn, with the recipient's name and the name of the group stating " 'Quilt of Honor.' Thank you and God bless."    

It was my privilege to deliver this handmade quilt to a veteran, a long time friend since grade school, honoring and acknowledging his service to his country 50 years ago.  The bonus was that it was a surprise, an unexpected delivery of a gift, one given from the heart.

The Threadbearers originated in 2003 with one woman who had a vision and a desire. Now a group of 10-15 quilters, most of them retirees, they can be found on any given Monday morning in a church basement, designing and creating quilts to be given to the men and women in their local community who served in this country's military.  Many of these women feel it is their personal ministry, a way of expressing God's love and saying "thank you" to some who may have been forgotten.  Each quilt is unique, one-of-a-kind, as the intent is to make them as individual as each recipient is.    

These are the quiet ones among us, the humble, the ones who have no desire to make a name for themselves, to draw attention to themselves, or to even receive recognition, but to fulfill a mission, one they are passionate about, one they feel deeply about.

The recipients are often the quiet ones among us as well, at least when speaking about themselves and their service in the military.  Reticent, often reluctant to share, many of them carry a heavy burden, unseen by acquaintances, friends, and family.  

"War is hell."  Having served in Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan, or other places, they left those countries behind at the end of their service when they returned home.  However, those countries and the experiences there did not leave them behind as they deal with physical, mental, and emotional damage incurred decades ago. They are the wounded of our nation.    

It is said that "Time heals all wounds."  For many veterans that is not an accurate statement. Deep scars remain and, while time has perhaps softened the agonizing pain, the memories remain, surfacing with reckless abandon.  In addition, in many circles the military is not viewed as a highly regarded calling.  For those who gave of themselves and their lives for their country the lack of respect and harsh judgment is a "hard pill to swallow," difficult to reconcile.  

In particular, Vietnam veterans returned back home to a seed bed of animosity.  The climate across the country was one of a resistance to that war and no mercy was shown to those who served, many being cursed, even spat upon for their service.  Returning from a hell, they were thrust back into an even worse kind of hell--rejection and betrayal by fellow Americans, some of them their own family members as well as their government, causing them to retreat within themselves and deal with their experiences in silence.

Unlike previous times of military engagements, these men and women were not given a "thank you," let alone being honored for the lives they left behind in that country.  A lifetime later, a Quilt of Honor gives acknowledgement and recognition in a personal, meaningful way.  

One Quilt of Honor recipient poignantly shared it this way:

"I never felt appreciated when I came home.  No one ever said 'Thank you for your service, and I'm glad you're home.'  Some vets felt betrayed by the Government, and it made the cold reception even worse.  We got so we kept our Vietnam service to ourselves.  It wasn't until we were involved in the Middle East that I had someone say 'Thanks for your service' to me.  It was in the Safeway parking lot, and he wasn't a veteran.  It was just a guy, which made it special.  It was an emotional experience.  That's the way receiving the quilt made me feel.  It was like a personal, special 'Thank you' just for me, from the ladies who sewed the quilt and from the person who made it happen for me."  

Upon receipt of the gift, the response and reaction of the recipient is often that of being overwhelmed.  It is difficult for them to comprehend the thoughtfulness, kindness, and generosity of complete strangers.  "Thank you just isn't enough," is a common comment.  One veteran placed his quilt on the back of the couch so he could look at it; others hang them on the wall, in a window in order to display them.  

Over the years, "The Threadbearers"  have delivered hundreds of quilts to our veterans, as many as 123 in a given year.  They are gifts.  No compensation, payment, or donation is requested.  These ladies have never had a "money-maker" to purchase materials and supplies, no raffle or offering plate.  And yet, 13 years later, they "happily sew away."

What is a gift from the heart?  How does it differ from other gifts?  A gift from the heart is not the object given but the origin of it.  It can be anything--an object purchased or hand-made, a gift of time or assistance.  Personal and priceless, no dollar figure can be placed upon it.  

Coming from the mind of God, beginning as a single seed of thought, the base of it is love, as He is love.  Given to one to fulfill, it has a life of its own, continuing to grow over time. These are not gifts which are forgotten, ending up in a discard or donation pile.  No other type of gift, regardless of its monetary value, has that potential or capability, that of growth. 

A gift from the heart is one which touches and affects not only the recipient, but the giver as well. These quilts are a perfect example, providing both physical and emotional comfort for the recipient while giving the ones who bestow the gift a deep sense of satisfaction and purpose.

When it comes time for a Quilt of Honor to be "given a home," as the gifting is called, a small group of women, the ones who have spent hours at the fabric store, the cutting table, and then at their sewing machines creating it, gather together and pray, asking that God will be honored, that He is given all gratitude and appreciation, and praying for the one who will receive it.

Following the lead and the example of their Heavenly Father as He freely gave and continues to give, these are "The Threadbearers," ordinary women with fabric, needle, and thread.   Affecting and having an impact on countless numbers of men and women, their families, and their friends, these Quilts of Honor are undeniably gifts of love, a gift from the heart.



"God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son.  Anyone who believes in Him will not die, but have eternal life."  John 3:16      

     

     




  

"On How to Win an Argument"

argument:  a verbal dispute, a quarrel--not to be confused with
argumentation:  reasoning, discussion, debate

Have you ever been privy to an argument and found yourself wanting to shout, "Stop it! Stop the fighting!  Stop arguing!?"

It often begins as a simple disagreement.  In culinary terms, an argument could be categorized as a two-ingredient recipe.  All that is required is two people with differing opinions and points of view--and that isn't hard to find.  It's not even necessary that they know one another.  There is no minimum requirement for age, and the entire spectrum of gender, race and creed is covered.  The subject matter is boundless, ranging from ordinary and mundane to critical, important issues.

An argument is a war of words where theories or facts, personal experiences and input, data, suppositions, opinions, and hypothetical situations are all thrown in the mix.  Some of it is reasonable and logical, but it is not a requirement.  Not for an argument.  The perceived purpose is for one of the parties to convince the other their position is the "right" one.  Ergo, it is predetermined that the other party has the "wrong" one.

It is not in the nature of mankind to readily concede.  Driven by the need to be right, to prove others wrong, to win--all is fodder for a war of words.  And that atmosphere of controversy is not conducive to that which is positive.  

In this era of social media and instant communication, one is able to converse not only with friends and acquaintances but with total strangers as well.  In a climate of division throughout the nation, much of that interaction is argumentative.  It can be tempting to enter into an ongoing conversation on an endless choice of web sites, to express a personal position with the hopes of persuasion taking place. Realistically, that never takes place.  

Any argument has the potential to escalate from that simple disagreement to vicious animosity, from a mere difference in opinion or perspective to full-blown battle, with a possible catastrophic outcome.  How often does that happen in a household between parent and child, in the workplace between employees, in a restaurant or local bar when discussing politics?  Walking down the street, going through the mall, the grocery store, at a football game--Listen and you will hear various stages of arguments taking place all around.  

So how does one win an argument?  There are no winners; no one wins.  One need only have experience with a 4-year-old refusing to wear boots in a rain storm, a pre-teen who sees no value in a shower, or an 18-year-old trying out his/her wings to have verification of that.  It is my feeling that arguments accomplish nothing, serving no purpose other than creating division.

When dealing with one's peers or fellow man, the better approach is to simply not engage. As an argument begins to unfold, silence is often the best counter.  It does take two.  
  
The expectation that arguments are won and lost is not valid.  No one is ever won over to another way of thinking by the words I say, the argument I present, but rather, by my life, my actions.  It is an old saying but a true one:  "Actions speak louder than words."  

Just because I disagree with someone doesn't mean I have to express it;  and if another disagrees with me, as my Mother always said, "It takes all kinds."  For me, that is a win-win. 



"A gentle answer turns away rage, but a harsh word stirs up anger."    

"On Chance....Or Not"

chance:  random occurrence; luck or fortune


Her name is Jaylynn.

I have never met her, have no idea of her age, what she looks like, or where she lives, but our paths crossed yesterday.  Some would say the universe with its planets and stars were lined up perfectly.  Others would call it "chance."  

Watching television is not one of my consuming passions; the expense of having so many channel choices is more than I want to spend.  Calculating it to be $3 a day for typically one hour of use I decided, "Perhaps I can get rid of some of the many channels and save a few bucks."  And so a call was made to my television provider.

The young woman was thorough, professional, intelligible, and helpful, and a new plan was enacted for the requested savings. 

At what point the exchange became a conversation I cannot tell you, but we spoke of animals, the evidence of the prevalent lack of work ethic in this current generation, relationships.  It was give-and-take as she shared current happenings in her life, and I contributed with my own experiences and perspective.  

I shared with her that I am not one who "needs" a man and my desire for my grandgirls is that they know their own value and worth in and of themselves.  "No man can tell me what to do," she responded.  "Only God can do that, and no man is God."  

The conversation exploded at that point on a personal level as we talked for probably 15 minutes--girl talk with a spiritual undertone.

Thirty or so years ago a long-time friend, a young man then in his twenties, appeared on my doorstep.  "I have been told you have something to tell me," was the gist of his greeting.  We sat down as I felt the weight of a heavy pronouncement placed upon me.  

As we talked, I introduced him to the person of God, not the concept or the idea of, but Him. He is a person, He is that real.  And in that person chance, karma, luck, fortune have no part or place.  

I have no idea if my friend remembers that conversation or not.  I do.

As my exchange with Jaylynn came to an end, I shared the address for this blog and told her to use the phone number on the business record to call me if she ever needed to or wanted to just talk.  Why did I do that?  It has been my experience that, when people open up to me, when they share their lives, I respond in a like manner, making myself available to them.

"Chance" is a fallacy; it is a lie.  Nothing in this world, in this universe is random; it is ordered, and there is One who brings order to it.  Even in this time of chaos, He is in charge.

There was a time when I was questioning what to do, when, where, and how.  A still, small voice spoke, "All I have asked you to do is to live your life."  I'm saving $20 a month for TV, and I had a meaningful experience in the process.  And that is why I love my life.




    

"On All Things Ordinary"

ordinary:  adj.  Being part of the natural order of things, normal, customary, routine

extraordinary:  adj.  Not ordinary, exceptional, unusual


The comment was made by a former high school classmate:  "I do love the way you write and make the ordinary so much more."   In a few words, she aptly described my life and how I view the world and everything in it.  "The ordinary IS so much more," was my response.

We live in an age of superlatives--big government and big banks, megachurches, multi-faceted products, multibillionaires, superstars and super sized meals; high-speed internet, corporate farming, conglomerates, all things global.  That word ordinary carries with it a negative connotation, as though something is wrong.  Perhaps goals have not been set and met; maybe focus has been lost; something is definitely askew.  How can ordinary be a good thing?  How can it be optimum, desirable?  

Ordinary, however, is what makes up our everyday life; quite literally, it is what makes the world go around.  Consistent, predictable, typical, we rely on and expect ordinary, whether we realize it or not.  It is the out of the ordinary which carries a jolt, puts a kink in our plans, throws us for a loop.

The sun rises and it sets; the seasons change as one flows and melds into the next; babies are conceived and born, and as they grow up, a changing of the guard takes place as that generation becomes the next to rule the world; there is birth, and there is death. Life is filled with ordinary, the various rhythms and cycles meshing together like gears, propelling us all forward into the future, unknown though it may be.

How, then, does ordinary become something more?  How does it become extraordinary?

I am reminded of a Bible story. Christ and His 12 disciples had gone into the desert for a retreat of sorts, a time of privacy and rest.  A multitude of people in the thousands discovered where they were and inundated the area, wanting to be healed or delivered from demons, begging to be taught. Recognizing their needs, He did not turn them away.  

It became late in the day and, with no food available in the desert, the people were getting hungry.  The disciples wanted to send everyone off to their homes, but Jesus had a plan, another idea.  A young boy had offered food he had brought, five loaves of barley bread and two fish, probably quite ordinary fare for that time.  Isn't it just like a boy to make sure he has some food, a little snack for himself as he heads out the door?     

The crowd was numbered at 5,000 men, and that didn't include the women and children. It was obvious there wasn't a sufficient amount to feed everyone.  The disciples pooled their money and quickly realized they weren't even close to having enough funds to purchase food for that many people even if they went back into the village to do that.

Christ accepted the gift of bread and fish from the boy, gave thanks to God, and began giving the food to the disciples to distribute to the crowd.  The people ate, they were all filled, and there were 12 baskets of leftovers--from five loaves of bread and two fish. 

Ordinary becoming extraordinary.

Everything about my life and about me is ordinary--where I live, how I live, the food I eat, the vehicle I drive, the work I do.  One could almost set their clock by my morning rising time. I begin my day almost identically every day, first with a cup of green tea with a touch of honey and vinegar, then a green smoothy concoction of spinach, kale, banana, and orange, topped off with a bowl of cereal.  While you might not consider the smoothy ordinary, it is for me. There is a sameness about my life, a routine.

And yet in the ordinary there are times of extraordinary.  They come when I least expect them and always fill my soul, my very being with the knowledge that my life consists of more than just me--a message received from one who has had major struggles in life, sharing where he is, what he is doing, and how life is coming along for him; a visit from another I have known for most of his lifetime, picking up the conversation where we last left off, a verbal exchange of our lives and friendship with one another; a grocery store clerk who openly speaks of her frustrations and fears about family while checking me out; a young mother I've not even met who reveals the pain and heavy load of caring for a family member with a terminal illness while being wife and mother as well, asking for prayer.

People.  People who open the door to their inner self and allow me to enter in.

My life is not my own.  I don't know if that is readily or easily understood, but it is so.  In giving up one's life, the doors are opened up to experience touches, moments where all that is ordinary becomes extraordinary.  That is what happened when that young boy gave all that he had to give.  That is the touch of God in everyday, ordinary life.  


  

      


  




          

"For the Love of Dog"

dignity:  a quality or state worthy of esteem and respect

His name is Tank.  He was given that name when he was chosen as a puppy, as he was the largest of the litter.  It was as apropos then as it is now. That was 14 years ago. In his prime he weighed 110 pounds; as an elder that has diminished to 89 pounds, still a large animal. 

Tank's family is on a camping trip.  In times past he would have been included. Age has set in and with it some physical limitations. The logistics of navigating the camp site and trailer would be difficult for him and not practical, so he is visiting my house.  

He loves going into the backyard, investigating the trails of animals which may have frequented during the night, lying on the cool grass.  

There are two steps from the utility room to outside.  Tank's hips are weakening and he has trouble hoisting his body up onto his back legs.  Very carefully, he gauges placement of his paws as he works his way down, no small feat for an animal his size.  

Coming back in is no easy matter for him either, as demands are placed on his front legs and upper body to get up the steps and through the door, his back legs unable to provide the necessary spring.  I leave the back door open for him, and he comes up to the steps and stands, waiting for me to come and coax him, encourage him.  He knows himself and, when the legs simply aren't working, he waits as I get a sling and place it underneath him. I have been so struck by his willingness and effort to work with me as I raise his front in the door and he is then able to get his back legs underneath him and step up and in.    

I must present the disclaimer that I am not a dog person.  There are some who are unable to live their lives without a dog.  I am not one of them.  Having said that, I must make an exception--and that would be Tank.

For the first two years of his life he had the exclusive attention of his owner and master.  A God-send during a difficult time in life, they were the picture of "A Man and His Dog."  With love and a firm hand Tank was taught the importance of manners, obedience, and how to be a gentleman.  

The family grew--first a wife, an infant, and then another entered the household, and Tank was unsure of his status.  He had lost the position of first priority, and it was evident he didn't understand what was happening.  Jealousy is not in his nature, and he conceded to the change.  With his body size and bulk there was the potential of plowing the little ones over, but he was always conscious of them and did his best to make way for them.  Now 10 and 12, "Tankers" is the girls' best friend.

Watching one age is difficult, whether it be man or beast.  Tank's abilities and capabilities have decreased since the last time he stayed with me.  His body is wearing out.  The days of chasing after a ball, swimming in the river, and running, running, running are in the past.    

I am reminded of the phrase "aging gracefully." That is what Tank is doing.  I watch him, and his intelligence and level of understanding is amazing, his disposition admirable.  The dignity with which he is living his life at this stage is enviable, an example we humans can apply in our own lives.  He copes with his restrictions and does so with a smile.   

Because I'm not an animal person, I haven't seriously considered the place of animals in eternity, the next life.  Tank has caused me to give that some serious thought.  He has been such a gift to his family and those who come in contact with him, why wouldn't there be a place for him?  I must say I don't know.  

What I do know is that the Creator is One who cares about all of His creation, and that includes Tank.  Without words, just by being, Tank has had an impact on many.  He certainly has worked his way into my heart.  Lessons learned from an animal, at the hand of God.  

Tank, you are the best!   
    


"Are not 5 sparrows sold for two pennies, and not one of them is forgotten before God."

   














   

"On Selflessness vs. Selfishness"

Two gifts of selflessness

selflessness:  being more concerned with the needs of others than with your own needs; self-sacrificing

selfishness:  concerned chiefly or excessively with self and having little regard for others

Sitting down in my rocking chair with my morning elixir of green tea laced with honey and apple cider vinegar--with the "mother" of course, I began what has become my morning ritual, that of scrolling through various news feeds on my iPad.  I have forgotten the merit and value of the tea/honey/vinegar combination, but I think it has something to do with alleviating stiffness in the fingers.  While I refuse to apply the label arthritic, it does seem to help a bit. 

One of the first articles I read was about a young woman, pregnant with twin girls, having an abortion at 20 weeks.  One of her justifications for the abortion was that she already had two girls. After reading the details of what is involved in late-term abortions, I found a seething outrage developing within over what I could only see as an act of selfishness.   

"Children are a gift."  That is my mantra, "It matters not how they are given."  And I would add that, while some pregnancies may come at an inopportune time under difficult circumstances, they are not a mistake, the children an inconvenience.  Life is a gift.  

Many years ago, almost 50 in fact, I found myself in a place of desperately wanting a child and unable to become pregnant.  If you were to question my Heavenly Father, He would no doubt shake His head and rub His ears upon being reminded of that time in my life. The begging, pleading, crying, dare I say--harassing, was endless.  Driven by that intense desire with no fulfillment was one of the most difficult times of my life. 

Fertility drugs were still experimental but were presented as an option,  Multiple births were frequent and, after being told of a mother in Australia conceiving nine babies, I declined.  My thought was that I had asked God for a baby, not a litter.    

It was then the idea of adoption was placed in my mind, a door opening up.  Having stepped through, I've never looked back.

The phone call came from the adoption agency saying our little girl had been born.  My thoughts immediately went to her birth mother, the pregnancy, labor, and delivery she had just experienced, the sacrifice she was making, and the fact that she was going to leave the hospital empty-handed and broken-hearted.  I asked God to give her peace and to let her know she had done the right thing.  In a time of closed adoptions, where all records were sealed by the courts, I never expected to ever meet her or see her.
Thirty-one years later, I was given yet another gift when my firstborn grandgirl was adopted by my daughter and her husband through the same agency. Times and laws had changed.  This was an open adoption, one where the birth mother chose the parents who would provide a home for and raise the child she was carrying. It was agreed between the parties involved that a level of communication and contact would take place as she grew up.          

My son-in-law was President of the Oregon Logging Conference for 2015-16; as "First Lady," my daughter had certain responsibilities.  One was to present a charity at a dessert luncheon, the proceeds from the luncheon to benefit that charity of choice.  She chose Boys' and Girls' Aid Society of Oregon, the adoption agency both she and her daughter, my grandgirl, were adopted through.  Her plan was to make a video presentation rather than a verbal one, and she wanted to incorporate all those women in her life who had been a part of her very personal adoption experience.

We were to meet for a photo session and dinner.  There were five of us, ranging in age from 16 to 71, connected by a common bond, a thread which wove its way through all our lives, that of adoption.  Two birth mothers, two adoptive mothers, two adopted children. My daughter was the unique one to be both an adoptee and an adoptive parent. 

At the restaurant, my daughter's birth mother and I were seated next to one another. Birth mother and child had made a connection several years earlier.  I had met her then, but we hadn't really talked.  As the dinner neared an end, she leaned over to me.  "She's beautiful. You did such a good job raising her."  It was then I was able to thank her for the priceless, selfless gift she had given me.  I told her of my prayer for her--Yes, she had been given peace.  I told her of the first time I held her precious gift and that I never took for granted the pain she had gone through or minimized how difficult the decision was to give her child to another, never expecting to ever see her again. 
  
Whether one is selfless or selfish, those traits are not ones which can be covered up or hidden.  They are readily visible, manifest in behavior, actions, and attitudes; words never factor in.  A base, a foundation within each one of us, they are seen and felt by our families and fellow man.  At the core of all that we do, we come from either a place of selflessness or selfishness.

Facing the option of abortion and choosing instead to carry their babies full-term, two women made the ultimate sacrifice, that of giving up their children.  I'm certain it was the hardest thing they ever had to do.  I cannot imagine my life without these gifts.  My life and that of my family would have a huge hole in it, an enormous void were it not for this, the epitome of selflessness. I am eternally grateful--to these two and to the One who heard my cries and answered.




I am reminded of the One Who asked no more than what He, Himself did.  

"God loved the world so much that He gave His one and only Son....."