"On Surprises"

surprise:  something not expected

"The writing" has been a surprise.  Being able to share my life and how I live it, it is something I neither trained for nor what I expected to be doing at this time in my life.  In fact, had you asked me a year ago, let alone decades ago, if I thought I would be writing as I neared 70, I would have probably laughed, the idea being ludicrous.  It isn't that I haven't tried before; it's that the paper always came up blank.

What fun it is to surprise children, planning first experiences of wonderment for them, working out the details of adventures in secret, then plopping them in the lap of an unsuspecting child.  Holidays and birthdays, summer vacations, and week-end treks provide opportunities to fill a child's life with surprise.  But I contend there is that same child within each of us, regardless of the number of years we carry.  Who doesn't like being given a gift or a treat, one that is unexpected and prepared especially for us?  Large or small, they leave a smile on our face and joy in our heart. 

I've heard some say, "I don't like surprises,"  and yet life never goes as planned and is filled with the unexpected.  Some of those surprises bring great joy, others great sorrow, and still others great frustration and complication.  Each and every day of life is an unknown.  How often do we find ourselves thinking and saying, "I didn't know that was going to happen."?

As much as we would like to think we are in charge of the planning and the preparation, the future is hidden from our eyes; we watch it unfold as it happens, either as participant or bystander.  In essence, isn't that what the news is--reporting the surprises of the day?

Forrest Gump's "Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're going to get," says it well.

As one who views life through a spiritual lens, I have been thinking about this element of  surprise, the unexpected.  My Creator is a Master at seeing I am prepared for living life.   It is not His goal to have the surprises of the day wipe me out or immobilize me, but to walk me through them, having given me the capability of "rolling with the punches," flowing, and moving forward.

Car problems, scheduling conflicts, a weather event, a trip to Urgent Care, the report of a test result from a doctor, surprises ad infinitum.  Some require a simple adjustment in the day, others turn one's world upside down.  For me, that is when I reach out and place my hand in His.  Naive', simplistic, childlike?  Perhaps--but it is how I live my life.

My Heavenly Father has given this child a gift, a treat when He gave me "the writing."  He has given me my voice.  Isn't that something each of us, regardless of our age or our gender unconsciously seek, that of being able to express our thoughts, our feelings, our beliefs, and opinions?  Being heard is a bonus.  It brings me great joy, a deep gratification to share myself with you.  

A lovely surprise especially prepared for me, it is uniquely individual, suiting me and fitting like a glove.  May your life and the lives of those you love be filled with the same kinds of surprises--at His hand.


"No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no human mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him."

"Every good and perfect gift is from God.  This kind of gift comes down from the Father who created the heavenly lights."

"On Nudgels"

Upon awakening this morning, before my eyes had even opened, the nudgel was in my mind.  I have an appointment with an editor today; she has been reviewing some of my writing.  She is also one with whom I shared my musical enterprise, that of returning to the piano after half a lifetime.  I had not thought of it before, but I will give her a CD I had made of a compilation of several compositions.  

My life, my world is filled with these, and I love them.  As soft as butterfly wings, yet as persistent as true grit, they will not be ignored.  I would have to deliberately reject them, and that I do not want to do.  They might be the result of a "What to do, what to do?" outcry or, as this morning, something I've not considered before.  I have learned to recognize this as the hand of my Creator in my life, His "still, small voice."  Unlike other thoughts, a process of critical thinking, they come from a deeper place within.

In searching for a descriptive term, I have always come up empty--until now.  The word nudgel does not exist in our English language. However, in the same way certain nicknames suit individuals, fitting like a glove, I feel it is apt; it even makes sense.

nudgel:  an experience of direction, guidance, insight, knowledge; understanding imparted within from God, without words; knowing something never known before  

This past week I was at a client's home, one who is away for some time.  While cleaning, I opened up a window to let some fresh air in.  "Note to self," I thought, "make sure the window is shut before leaving."  I finished and had gone on to another job when the nudgel presented itself.  Had I closed that window or not?  Upon returning I discovered that I had, indeed, left it open.  Some will say such happenings have nothing to do with God, that it is just the way our mind works, reminding us.  I understand that reasoning, that position, but I disagree.  

I don't know other's lives.  I only know mine, but I suspect you have each had your own nudgels over the course of your life, those experiences or thoughts that are beyond your own mind, your own thinking--reminders or, simply, "knowing."  

It seems there is an unwillingness to identify them as spiritual. Called "luck, a gut feeling, intuition, instinct, sixth sense," there is a reluctance to identify them as spiritual, a hesitancy on the part of man to correlate God to one's personal life.  Perhaps that idea has never been a consideration before so it isn't a part of man's perspective.

This much I know:  He is present, He is a factor.  And we can call that whatever we like, whatever we are comfortable with and whatever suits us, but that still does not alter the truth.  Mankind is fortunate that He cares, and we are fortunate that He places nudgels within--if we just pay attention.    

By the way, I need to get that CD out of the closet now.

"A rose by any other name is still a rose."  And so it is with God.

"On Being Prepared"

Whenever I hear of or think of someone who has passed away, I find myself wondering,  "Where are they now, what are they doing, what did they find in the next life?"  Some may find that grim, macabre even; I find it realistic.  I am of the belief that life does not end when a final breath is taken on this earth but continues on in another realm, another dimension, that which is spiritual yet actual.  This life is temporal, short-term; the next is eternal, lasting forever. 

The afterlife, as it is often called, is conjured up in the minds of man to be almost fairytale-like, where the life left behind on earth continues on, filled with ethereal scenes and all things grand and glorious.  The possibility and probability of it being as man thinks is certainly remote.  Our imaginations are natural, a human response to deal with ideas and concepts which are larger than life.  After all, how can we begin to conceive of that which we've never seen?  

There are those who have had "Near Death Experiences," ones where the body has shut down, and the occupant of that body is taken into the realm of all that is eternal and then returned back.  They each have a similar, recognizable experience to recount, and the common theme is the sense of being unconditionally, overwhelmingly loved.  

For the most part, however, it's not like a tourist site, a cruise ship, or hotel accommodations where friends go and then return with their critiques, their recommendations or lack thereof.

Man spends an inordinate amount of time planning and preparing for situations and circumstances in life:  the evitable and the inevitable; the foreseen and the unforeseen; the what-ifs?, the emergencies.  Then there are the events:  the births of children, birthdays, holidays, graduations, weddings, education, vacations.  Retirement, healthcare concerns, end-of-life issues, funeral planning, insurance protection--In our culture we do everything possible to make certain no stone is left unturned, that all the bases have been covered, right up to death.  But what about preparation for the next life?   

The average life expectancy in my home state of Oregon is listed at 79 years of age. Think, for a moment, of the amount of preparation given to the needs of a physical life that may expire before the age of 80.  And there is a major problem--None of those plans and preparations are transferable into the next life.  They have no value there.  This brings up a question for serious thought and consideration.  Since eternity is, well....., it is a long, long time, wouldn't it be prudent for us to prepare for that life with the same perspective, importance, and intent as we prepare for this earthly life?  It seems to me it would be a good idea to make certain we are ready when it is time for that transition to be made.  There is, after all, no turning back and no do-over.

How DOES one prepare for eternity?  While that question has, indeed, been raised,  I do not have a go-to, a how-to answer.  There is no pamphlet or brochure which lists the steps and the processes for that.  The reason is because man cannot prepare himself to meet God. 

This much I know:  The first step is the acknowledgement that God is and of the need to be made ready for the next life, as that life will either be with Him or without Him.  There is nothing more we can do.  The rest is in His hands.  I also know that He will not turn away anyone who comes to Him with sincerity, a genuine desire, and a pure heart.  All it takes is a simple request:  “Prepare me to meet you, God.”

Being prepared and living in the knowledge of that preparation is a gift, a treasure.  Not a single one of us knows when this physical life is coming to an end so, in my thinking, time is always of the essence.  For me, I don't want to go into eternity with regret.

There--I am at the end of my post.  Why do I feel the need to share this and ask for your consideration of this matter?  Because "Eternity is a long, long time," and each one of you matters.

"Life does not consist of an abundance of possessions."  The story is told of a certain rich man who had an abundant harvest.  He said to himself, "You have plenty of grain laid up for many years.  Take life easy; eat, drink, be merry."  The response of Christ was, "You fool.  This very night your life will be demanded from you.  Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?  This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.

"On Good News, Good News"

The bank is covered with ivy and blackberries, and it is my annual task to cut back the blackberries so the ivy is encouraged to take over.  Since it is one of my least favorite gardening activities, I tend to postpone the job, and this year was no exception.  It had been a while since Lynn asked me to deal with them; it was on my to-do list.  Finally, I made the decision to tackle them.  I headed up the bank with pruners in hand and began snipping the blackberries back to the ground. 

"It was bound to happen sooner or later."  That is the thought that has been playing over and over in my mind.  The whole idea wasn't foreign so when it did occur I really wasn't that surprised.  A person can't go traipsing through the brush and dried vegetation like I do without expecting to run into the nasty buggers. "What?" you may ask, was I more-or-less expecting.  That would be another encounter with wasps.  It is, after all, that time of the year, the end of summer, when  wasps become very aggressive, anti-social, and just down-right mean.

Learning about wasps was never on my need-to-know list, but learn I have.  And they are wasps, rather than bees.  Ron, another of my clients, specializes in moths, and when I tangled with them a year ago, he gave me that information. 

What I have learned is that by the end of summer, the beginning of autumn, the worker bees have nothing left to do.  They have fulfilled their mission of providing insects to feed the young grubs back in the nest.  Their food of choice is often decaying fruit, rather than the protein they eat early on, and they handle nature's wine in the same way many humans do.  They become mean drunks.  In addition, the queen has stopped producing the hormone that keeps the wasp colony within the nest.  They are on a final binge, as these worker bees die when the weather turns cold.  And they are not nice.

Recently I wrote of my experience a year ago when I dug my weeding tool into a bee's nest tucked away in the ground.  My body reacted to the angry bees quite significantly.  Ever since that post and the recollection of that incident I have been on a kind of red alert.  While Al Qaeda and Isis are definitely terrorist groups, these teensy, tiny, little black and yellow flying, stinging critters have the capability of striking their own kind of terror.  Just thinking about them causes me to cringe.

On the ivy bank, I had clipped two or three blackberry vines back when I felt something bothering my foot.  Looking down, I saw several of my least favorite insects flying around my feet.  My eyes glanced up, and it was then I saw the hole in the ground and the wasps swarming out of it.  Given my past experience, I am amazed at how calm I was.  Another tidbit I have learned is that when one swats at them or stirs them up a chemical is emitted, a signal of distress, and those in the nest respond.  They swarm, attack, and even chase.  Wasps are able to sting repeatedly as well, so the potential is a recipe for disaster.

I calmly walked down the hill--yes, calmly.  When I was a distance away, I killed the two left on my feet.  One was trapped between my shoe and my sock, so he was stinging over and over again.  I got in the truck, where I have a bee sting kit, and headed home, conscious of my breathing and physical response. 

I'm certain you have heard situations described in terms of "good news, bad news"; however, this experience is only "good news, good news."  Yes, I was stung, but part of the good news is that my body did not go into shock.  While I have no desire to meet up with a family of wasps again, it is good to know that I was able to continue breathing, and I did not break out in hives. My response to the initial assault was a gift.  Typically, I would become hysterical, swinging for all I'm worth.  Additional good news is that I did not step on that nest.  It was less than a foot away.  Had I gone up the hill at a different angle I would have walked right on top of it. 

My life is not in my hands.  Once again, I was being watched over and taken care of by my Heavenly Father.  While I continue to be apprehensive when I even think about wasps,  and my foot swelled like a football, not a morsel of this encounter was a negative, only positive.  I did end the day with "good news, good news."  It goes without saying that the blackberry briars are still up on that bank.  I think I'll wait for cooler weather.  That, and for Lynn to have the nest destroyed.

"On Granny Gear"

Dragging my feet, procrastinating, digging my heels in--any way I phrase it, I have been taking my sweet, sweet time getting off to work.  I know I'm in slow mode when I hear myself pleading, over and over again, "Just get me going, just get me going.  Please."  I talk to God a lot.  As I made a detour to check the raspberries and graze, the thought occurred to me:  I'm in "granny gear."  It made me laugh as that description is so fitting and on more than one level.

For those of you who learned to drive with a stick shift, you know exactly what I am talking about when I use that term.  And is there any other way to learn to drive than with a stick? If you have only driven with an automatic transmission let me explain--"Granny gear" is the lowest of low gears in a vehicle with a manual transmission.  I doubt one can go more than a couple miles per hour when in "granny gear."

When I was 8 years old, my Dad set me up on the tractor and showed me what to do and how to do it.  My task was to steer the giant tractor through the hay field, pulling a trailer, stopping periodically for my brothers and Dad to load the baled hay.  There isn't much to run into in the wide open field, other than bales of hay, so it was the perfect place to learn. Plus, operating in granny gear, the lowest speed on the tractor, meant I was virtually crawling.  I wasn't particularly dangerous or threatening to anyone or anything.

And so I am, all these years later, operating in granny gear once again.  In thinking about it, it feels as though slow motion has been my modus operandi for several months now.  This gardening season has been an unusual one for me.  Getting into a real work rhythm has been elusive.  When I am operating full throttle it is not unusual to be on the job site by 8, returning home 10 hours later.  This year, I find I am puttering around the house, taking my time, and I am fortunate if I make it to a job by 10.  At the other end of the day, there is always a variety of reasons aka excuses to call it a day and return back home. 

When I am able to put circumstances in my life into words, when they can be described, it is as though I have turned a corner.  Situations that have been troubling me are brought into focus, there is clarity.  I have been bothered a great deal by my lackadaisical approach to work and have judged myself as being lazy.  The "granny gear" description is perfect, not only as it applies to my slow rate of speed, but the granny part as well, for I am that, five times over. Pleading the Fifth Amendment to avoid incrimination isn't going to work.  I am guilty.  

There is no explanation for nor understanding of my work habits this season;  I don't have to know why.  What I will do is "just keep going."  And that is a whole other subject for a whole other day.  Besides, even in granny gear a person can end up covering a lot of territory.  It may take a while, but it's better than standing still.  Remember the story of "The Tortoise and the Hare?"  Point made.

"On The Things I've Learned From My Son"

My children are not mine; they are not a possession. They have been given to me to love and to nurture, but ultimately they do not belong to me.  This I learned from the beginning of motherhood when my firstborn, my son, was born six weeks prematurely.  While I was in early labor a nurse at the hospital informed me, "This baby cannot be born.  It is too little."  He was born within less than three hours of that statement.  He was small, weighing a bit over 5 pounds at a time several decades ago when there were no neo-natal intensive care units in hospitals, and the sole treatment for preemies was to place them in incubators, pumping oxygen in to assist them with their underdeveloped lungs.  Watching him through a glass window, his heart beating in his chest like hummingbird wings, it never occurred to me that his life could be taken at any point in time.  Later, I understood the reality of that.

After spending two weeks in an incubator, we brought him home from the hospital with all kinds of information as to what to expect from a preemie.  His physical and mental development would be stunted, we were told.  He would be playing catch-up for quite a while.  The disparity between reality and what "they" said was evident from the beginning.  Within three month's time he was on par with his peers.  Apparently my son didn't read the pamphlets.  I know God didn't. 

Several years later, in his early teens, I learned how quickly life can turn, in a heartbeat, when a phone call was received from the school principal.  My son had "taken a little tumble" in a physical education class, but they thought he was "okay." They had him sitting up and everything seemed to be "alright."  The "little tumble" resulted in torn ligaments in his neck, making it impossible to support his head.  While waiting for the surgeon to fuse three vertebrae, using wire in a figure 8 and bone from his hip to create one section of solid spine in his neck, there were no prayers.  Not knowing whether or not he would have a whole body, I learned to wait on and for my Heavenly Father, asking nothing of Him.  Waiting, waiting, only waiting, knowing my son's future life was not in my hands.  The fact that he did not belong to me was reinforced.

He spent the summer in a body cast, no small feat for a growing 14-year-old boy, drawing questioning looks and stares wherever he went.  I watched as he deflected them and simply lived his life, and I learned what it means to not be affected by others.  Another lesson learned was of the kindness of our Creator.  Almost 40 years later, my son has two scars, one on his neck and one on his hip where bone was taken for the fusion, but no complications from what could have been a debilitating injury.  I never cease being thankful. 

He taught me that one can make a collection of anything.  As a little guy he collected animal figures given out by a local gas station.  There was a particular Jell-O box which depicted Mr. Jell-O.  He had a drawer filled with those.  The Jell-O boxes are gone, but he still has animals he accumulated as a child.  The collections of old insulators, old bottles, shells, Hard Rock Cafe pins from around the world --I have no doubt they are tucked away as well.  

Christmastime brings out displays of more than a few Nativity scenes and favorite Christmas ornaments and decorations.  Christmas at his home is like walking into a Christmas gift store, not knowing where to look first.  

His office is filled with University of Oregon football memorabilia; his yard is filled with all varieties of unique garden accessories and birdhouses.  If he has a particular taste for something, he will make a collection out of it.  He just can't help himself.

His sisters talk about their brother's "fem" side: a former greenhouse filled with orchids; the detailed, exquisite cross stitch gifts he has created; the Thanksgiving meals he prepares for family and friends, the menus he plans and cooks for charity dinners and tailgating parties.  He has taught me that gender is just a word. 

My son lives his life at full-speed.  He has since birth.  A sister commented that he never does anything half-way, and she's right.  His passion for animals, nature, wildlife, the sea and the outdoors; his humor and his hearty laugh; his effort to have a positive outlook no matter what the circumstances; his love for his family, music, and God--Everything about him is larger than life.  If you were to see him you would be struck by his imposing presence, this 6' 4" man who began life as a preemie.  In spite of the fact he never taught me the inappropriateness of wearing denim with denim, as my daughters have, I continue to learn by having him in my life.  I am forever thankful for my son.

"On A Family Bash"

A Shanks' family reunion has been planned for today.  Actually, I am refusing to call it a reunion.  I'm calling it a family bash.  Wouldn't you rather go to a bash than a reunion?  A local swimming pool has been reserved for the afternoon exclusively for the offspring of my own family and those of my two brothers.  The idea is that if the kids have fun then everyone has fun.  I think that is a basic formula for success in a family with children.

This has been in the making for more than a few months.  It was one of those "single thoughts" that began rolling around in my mind almost a year ago when I approached family members with the possibility of getting together during the summer of 2014.  It seemed the only time my family connects any more is at funerals, and I wanted that to change.   

My childhood memories and on into adulthood are filled with family times at my parent's country home.  Every birthday was celebrated with a "get-together;"  holidays meant the house was filled with people--my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews; summer always had outdoor fun with homemade ice cream.  There was food, an abundance of hearty, home-grown food created by women who knew how to cook. That changed when my mother's life was taken over by Alzheimer's, and she subsequently passed after a 10-year-long battle.  I don't think we ever intended to scatter, but we did.  She was the glue.  

Yesterday I was trying to recollect the last time we were all together. My children and the children of my two brothers grew up together, but it has been a while, a long while. 

The response to my grand plan has been overwhelmingly positive.  I think the lure of the swimming pool worked.  The grandgirls are excited over the prospect of getting acquainted with cousins they've not met before.  The little one's suggestion that "We'll pray before we eat, because that's what you do at reunions" will be heeded as well.  The sparkly grandgirl noted the comment she always hears at reunions is that of how much she has grown since she was last seen.  I need to remember not to do that.

Today is also a brother's birthday.  It seems fitting that we are having a "get-together" aka bash, even though the homemade ice cream will be missing.  I am thinking a Dairy Queen ice cream cake will fill the bill and run a close second as a favorite.

My son is preparing huge slabs of pork for pulled pork for sandwiches as we speak, and I have no doubt the daughters and granddaughters are continuing the tradition of preparing absolutely delicious potluck fare.  The weather is cooperating, and family members have made this day, this time, a priority. Can it get any better than this? 

A friend asked me if I was the matriarch.  "No," was my response.  "I just organized it.  Besides don't you have to be old to be one of those?"  The answer was that one only has to be 69.  Bingo!  I'm not sure what it means to be a matriarch, and I'm not taking that role on, but I am thrilled that my family is going to be together--and it's not at a funeral.  Fun times and good food, wonderful memories!