"On Being Free to Be"

fun: n. amusement, enjoyment or pleasure

I was on my hands and knees, weeding an area around a lovely pond for a gardening client when the thought, This is fun, passed through my mind. The next to follow was: Why would I even think this is fun? But it was. 

Fun is not a word generally applied to grubbing out Stinky Bob weeds--so described by another of my gardening clients because they do stink--I'm not sure where "Bob" came from, though I doubt it was ever personal...or Forget-Me-Nots--given that label since once you plant them, you'll have them forever, never to be forgotten...or a profusion of other weed varieties growing in the landscape surrounding the small waterway that led down into the pond, newly stocked with fish and flashing a bright water lily. 

Perhaps it was fun because the area was overrun with weeds, and I knew my clients were going to be surprised when they discovered it was cleared out--perhaps. Then again, maybe the soothing sound of gurgling water as it gradually flowed down the slope towards the pond before being pumped back up to begin its journey all over again made it fun--maybe. I could say it was because bright, blue-bodied dragonflies with transparent wings flitted around while I was working, but I know better. I know that true enjoyment comes from within, not without. 

I began writing over six years ago. In May, 2019, I self-published a book, a compilation of blog posts I had written. I joined the Oregon Christian Writers but I have never considered myself to be in the same league or class as my fellow members. Unlike many published, successful authors, I have no training and no credentials. I certainly don't have an agent. 

I have been in an ongoing struggle with self-doubt since my first published post. Do I really have anything to say? Is it anything anyone wants to hear about or read? Just who do I think I am? I simply cannot call myself a writer. That term applies to others--not to me. In that frame of mind, I shut down; I become silent. 

While in my garden today, I was watering some cosmos and a wild flower bed I planted from seed. I've never been successful with seeds, but these are thriving, largely because I am tending them. I provided good soil for them, giving them consistent water so they could sprout. I have given them the environment they need so they can eventually bloom. I am giving them loving care.

Nothing is more exciting, I thought, than planting a seed and watching it grow--whether in the physical or the spiritual. Bingo! THAT is what my God-given words are as I place them on paper. They are seeds that He tends and cares for, with the potential to bring about growth and change in the one who reads them. 

What struck me is the fact I need to forget the "writer" label and the semantics and just do what has been given to me to do--write. I was given a voice to use, not to stifle. 

And that is why cleaning up around the pond was fun today. My mind was freed. I gave no thought as to whether or not I qualify as a writer. Instead I thought of my experience and how best to describe it when I returned home--how to write about it and deliver its message. Thoughts of the current global pandemic didn't touch me. I was oblivious to the hatred and anger permeating my country, and the dissension and division between the political left and right never entered my mind. 

I am a person first--one who is a grandmother, plays the piano, gardens, and...writes.       

God is good--He is also pretty sneaky.

"Just Ask with Your Heart"

 prayer: n. A practice of communicating with one’s God, the specific words or methods used for praying.

 

Prayer is one of those things you either practice or you don’t. You either believe in it or you view it as something only the weak and feeble-minded engage in—although more than one such person has thrown a “hail-Mary” prayer to a God they don’t even believe in when times get really rough. It could be said that desperate times call for desperate measures.

For a person of faith, petitioning God is an important part of daily life. We all have needs and concerns, worries and problems, and God has said we may bring those to Him and leave them at His feet. Some requests are personal; others are in behalf of family and friends. Many people make a point of praying for people they don’t know and have never met. The current state of chaos in our nation is more than enough reason to become a pray-er.

How does one pray? Prayer is a simple act of communicating with God one-on-one. However, as with many facets of a spiritual life, how-to’s abound, presented by those who view life with God as a series of methods and techniques.

An online search revealed “The Proper Way to Pray,” along with your choice of four, five—or even nine—steps to follow. What do you say when you pray? Instructions are available for that as well.

I had a dream last night…or it might have been the night before. In my dream, I was having a conversation about prayer and praying with a young woman. She was not one to speak openly about her spiritual life, but she had either prayed for someone or about something. Soft-spoken and quite reticent, she very quietly said, “I just asked with my heart.”

Profound, simple, and true—that is how you pray. Prayer is never about the words. It is about standing before God as the innermost part of one’s being silently cries out to Him.

How do you pray? Just ask with your heart.

 

I

"On Being a Blunderer"

blunder: n. A clumsy or embarrassing mistake.

grace: n. Elegant movement; balance or poise.


Some of you have it all together. I am not one of those. I am more of a blunderer. Over the years I have learned that does not mean I am a failure. It simply means that "grace" will never be a description applied to me. 

A friend and I decided to try out the food of a local restaurant using the current method of take-out. Due to the pandemic of COVID-19, groups of people are not allowed to gather together but many restaurateurs make their fare available by means of pick-up and delivery.

We perused the online menu, made our choices and ordered. The food was to be ready by 5:30, so we headed on over. The restaurant was in a different location than I thought, but GPS easily delivered us.  

We had arrived early, and the parking lot was empty--duh--so we sat, waiting for the text message telling us our order was ready at the pick-up window. 

While waiting, we were discussing the best way to get back to the house upon leaving. I have been in the area plenty of times before, but with traffic and three lane choices it can be confusing as to the correct lane one needs to be in coming up to the stop light--left, center, or right. One lane heads downtown, another to the freeway, and then there's the correct one. I decided to walk out to the street and check so there wouldn't be a mix-up when we exited the lot. 

Confirmation was made--We should be in the middle lane in order to be heading the direction we needed to go.

It has been almost a year and a half since I fell and broke my jaw while walking across a street. My boot caught the top of a raised surface in the crosswalk, and down I went. Ever since then, I pay very close attention to the surface I am walking on. Head down, I started back to the car. I came around the right rear bumper to get in the passenger side and, as I reached for the door handle, the door opened. It was a young woman, laughing heartily. Another car had pulled in beside us, and I was getting ready to open the door on the wrong car! "You've just made my day," she said. I was laughing as well, though maybe a bit hysterically. My unspoken thought was, I'm glad to hear that, but it was sincere. Laughter does bring joy.

I have always admired women who are what I view as classics. In my mind, I would like to be one who has poise and grace, is soft-spoken and just plain lovely. Nothing about me falls in those categories, and yet...I have been made in the image of God, and He is well-pleased.

Self-acceptance is a gift from Him, and I am grateful for that. He has taught me to accept myself and to laugh at myself as well. I have no doubt He is entertained and chuckles as well. 

"On Losing It"

discombobulating: v. To throw into a state of confusion; to befuddle or perplex.


I paid for my groceries and headed out to the truck. It was at the end of a long day--a very long one where I had spent seven hours doing hands-and-knees gardening for clients. I needed some food staples so had stopped by the store before heading home. Arriving at my truck, I glanced down at the cart and realized it was empty. Discombobulated to say the least, I realized I had walked off after paying without bagging the food. I headed back in and retrieved the items from the clerk who had set them aside, knowing I would return. "It's been a long day," I told him.

My mind was spinning as I headed home. A couple of weeks earlier, I had some grocery items taken from my cart as I was digging in my purse for the keys to unlock the door--At least, that is what I thought had happened. Did I do the same thing then? Did I pay for my groceries and just walk away? The memory of that scenario added to the confusion of the current one.

"I'm losing it," I told a friend. "I'm just plumb losing it." In an effort and attempt to encourage and support me, I was told that he, too, has forgotten to do something or misplaced items."Don't give me that," I said. "Those are the same things I said to my mother when she was in the beginning stage of Alzheimer's.--They happen to everyone, Mom."

The experiences sat on my mind as I wrestled with them--and with God. 

Mom lived with Alzheimer's for ten years, passing away when she was around my age, and I'm 75. Some suggest it is inherited, asking if I am afraid of a similar fate. I have lived with the belief that it was a path my Mother had to walk, but that does not mean it is mine. I still believe that but the incident was unsettling.

My mind was eased as I recollected I had paid for the earlier items in the self-check. If I had left them sitting, the clerk on hand--or the next customer--would have told me. I've had people track me down when I've left cash in the machine. Yes, that's happened to me as well. And I do remember looking down at the deli chicken in the cart as its delectable odor wafted up as I headed to the truck.  

In my life as I walk with God, there are several basic things that will never change.
     #1: My life is not my own. 
     #2: I can control nothing.
     #3: God is love.
     #4: I either trust Him...or I don't. 

And so I begin another day, full of surprises and adventures. My God is a good traveling companion.

He said to his disciples,"Therefore I tell you,

do not worry about your life, what you will eat,

or about your body, what you will wear.

Luke 12:22

"On Being Held Hostage"

hostage: n. One who is not free to choose their own course of action. 

hostage situation: n. Events whereby the actor(s) (i.e., the hostage takers) are holding one or more persons against their will.


On December 31, 2019, while those countries in our world who use the Gregorian calendar were celebrating the beginning of a New Year, China reported a cluster of cases of pneumonia in people associated with a seafood wholesale market in Wuhan, Hubei Province. Less than three weeks later, on January 19, 2020, a 35-year-old man with a 4-day history of cough and a fever went to an urgent care clinic in Washington State. He disclosed he had returned to Washington on January 15 after traveling to visit family in Wuhan, China. On January 21, 2020, the first diagnosis of novel coronavirus in America was confirmed. 

The Wuhan Virus, the initial description given due to its origin, is a deadly virus which has expanded to touch every corner of the globe. Hundreds of thousands of people around the world have been sickened and thousands of others have died. The virus knows no  discrimination when it comes to income, background, education, or occupation. Those in high places are as susceptible as the lowliest of low. No particular country in the world, including the United States, is favored as it has brought the governments of the world and its inhabitants to their knees, begging for mercy.

Here in America a variety of measures have been put in place in order to try to limit the amount of exposure which may take place during daily life and its subsequent spread. The governor of each individual state has issued a variety of mandates, many of which are causing a grave and serious impact on the nation's economic health and the lifestyle of its citizens. Schools--from daycare up through universities--are shut down. The number of people allowed to meet together have caused physical social interaction to fade into non-existence. Church meetings, going to the gym, eating out at a local restaurant, enjoying sporting events--whether as a spectator or participant--none are allowed.

"Social distancing" is the term--I am to keep at least a 6' distance between me and the person nearest me. The initial suggestion to wear a mask for protection has now become a requirement when out in public. "Sheltered in" or "lockdown" is the wording used to reinforce the stand of the government to minimize becoming infected by the insidious, silent virus through self-imposed restrictions. "Stay home. Save lives" is the theme song of this New Year, 2020. 

Our borders are closed, preventing any from out of the country to enter; air travel is rare; small businesses across the country are shuttered. The orders were issued, and millions of us have obediently complied. Life as we knew it is completely altered. 

Why? Why would an entire nation of people respond so quickly--and so submissively? One could say this invisible monster has taken us hostage. I am going to suggest the virus is not the one holding the people of America hostage, but fear. The willingness to obey came about readily; fear was--and is--the culprit instigating and feeding the beast.

The initial response to COVID-19 was for the population across this land to storm stores, clearing the shelves of toilet paper and paper towels. Hand sanitizers and the ingredients to make them quickly followed as panic ensued. Grocery stores were unable to keep up with the demand for basic food items such as flour, rice, and beans as the fear surged. Fear of what? With restaurants closed, the stocking up of food makes sense. Keeping one's hands sanitized as a preventive measure doesn't seem unreasonable, but no one has come up with an explanation as to why there is a need to hoard large quantities of paper products.

Fear is like that, though. It has no rationale or common sense and no voice of reason.

Fear is the stuff that anxiety and panic attacks are made of. It causes total and complete debilitation, and that debilitation has permeated my country. Fear is the antithesis of peace. It is impossible for the two to share the same space and does not create an environment for health, either physical or spiritual.

In this electronic age where information is immediately transmitted around the world, some folk have found themselves glued to the television or the Internet, awaiting word of where and when the pervasive, insidious virus is expected to strike next. Images of horror are broadcast along with personal stories of life-and-death situations as many succumb to the disease and others recover. For many viewers, these reports only cause the fear to grow.

This encounter with COVID-19 has a war-like feel--against an enemy with the capability of sneaking in the back door and the potential of wiping humankind out. While the virus is very contagious, it appears to be less destructive in our nation than initially predicted. Fear embellishes, amplifies, and colors the most basic of things. It has had a field day with this one. 

COVID-19 set in motion a common, shared experience world-wide, and it has been exacerbated and propelled by fear. We were created as humans to touch, to share time and space. The mandates to wear a mask, hiding facial expressions; the 6' distancing rule, which does indeed create isolation; the perspective that each person we meet may be a carrier of the virus and, therefore, needs to be treated as a potential hazard, not a person--These contradict the very nature of our creation as human beings.

Hostage situations are combative ones with the police or military coming out in force with SWAT gear--their heavy body armor, armored vehicles, and heavy duty ballistics. The goal is always to bring about freedom for the one(s) being held hostage with no loss of life.

As humans we have two parts--the outer and the inner. The outer is the physical part, and the inner the spiritual, including the mind. This hostage situation, with the goal of setting the mind free from fear can never be accomplished by a SWAT team with its formidable equipment. It can happen only at the hand of God.

How does one deal with fear? And what, really, are we afraid of? Those are very personal, individual questions, ones which can only be answered in a searching of the soul before God. 

Personally, I have no fear of death. I don't even have a fear of the virus. As a person of faith, I know my life is not my own. Control of life--and death--is a fallacy. That control is not in my hands. 

Our country--and the world--is going to come out of this chaotic episode known as COVID-19. How are we going to deal with life as that takes place? And after? In fear or in freedom from fear?

May you find peace of mind in His presence. 

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; 
for fear has to do with punishment...
1 John 4:18

For God has not given us the spirit of fear; 

but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

2 Timothy 1:7   

"Perfect Little Girl"

dictionary definition--The condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.

Has God created anyone perfect? Is our society perfect? What is perfection? Growing up and hearing the word perfect, I only thought of it as perfect hair and face. It is so very far from that. When people/society call perfect what are they talking about? The free spirit is so much more outgoing and seen than a pretty face you see on Instagram. Social standards suck. It's putting people in a box basically saying if you aren't this idea of beauty you're not good enough. Do you know how stupid that is! When you're laying on your death bed are you going to be thinking about how good your outfit looked that one day or other people's opinions? No, you're going to be asking yourself if you really lived. Have you? Have you really done everything you wanted? Or at least put in the damn effort. Enjoy every moment as if it's perfect because it'll be over before you know it.

Sydnee King

"What are the Odds?"

odds: n. The ratio of the probability of an event happening to that of it not happening.

For those who gamble, knowing the odds factors into the decision made as to how much money to bet or whether or not to even make a bet. How much is the gambler willing to lose? Being aware of the odds gives a mathematical assessment as to the possibility of winning. For example, if the odds are 9/1 that means there is a 10% chance of winning; 1/4 means there is an 80% chance of winning. The greater the odds, the slimmer the chance of coming out ahead. If the odds are 100/1 there is less than a 1% hope of being a winner; 1000/1 makes it less than 1/10 of 1%--not very good odds to say the least.

My beloved sewing machine stopped working this morning--right in the middle of a seam. I have had her for over forty years, and it is the first time she has failed me. I have logged an enormous number of hours on my Swiss Bernina, and I do love to sew--and I love my sewing machine--so I found a shop that could check it out for me.

I thought I knew where the store was located but discovered I was mistaken. I was on a time frame--I needed to meet a client at a local nursery at 1, and I wanted to mow a lawn before that. The detour to the correct location had taken 10 minutes or so, but I thought I should have just enough time to make it. After leaving the sewing machine with the repair people, I hurried off.

Arriving at the mowing job, I parked the truck and was checking messages on my phone before unloading the mower. That was when I saw her out of the corner of my eye.  

She was a woman, probably in her eighties, moving very slowly as she walked down the sidewalk. Her left foot was heavy as she pushed her walker, the kind with a seat. In days gone by she would have been called a "bag lady,' one who carries their possessions around with them. It appeared she was not a person of means, but one who struggles to survive.

I recognize that woman, I thought. Am I going to get out and acknowledge her or not? I decided I wasn't going to--as I opened up my truck door and headed across the grass toward her. Deep inside I knew I could not forgive myself if I didn't speak to her. 

By this time she had traversed a ways on down the sidewalk. "Hello," I said, as I placed myself in her line of vision so she could see me. "Do you remember me?" I asked. Her face exploded in a huge, bright smile, exposing the empty spaces where front teeth were missing along with a single snag of a tooth. "Yes. You're the gardener." 

"How are you?" I asked. "I'm OK," she responded in a tone of resignation, one who is hanging on by a thread. We chatted for a while before she lumbered off, ever so slowly.
"Thank you," she said, an acknowledgement of appreciation that I had spoken to her.

The first time I saw her was several years back at a law office where I maintain the landscape. She stopped as I was working, commending the job I was doing and expressing her opinion about the local city council--"Someone good needs to run for that office." She wanted a person who would listen to the people.

The next time was at least three or four years ago at the same location. She approached me, asking if I knew where a specific address was located and directions to get there. It was quite a few blocks away, too far for her to walk, I felt. I offered to put her walker in the back of my truck and take her. "No. You don't have to do that." I assured her it wasn't a big deal, and yes, I did need to drive her there. 

She talked the entire way, speaking of her faith and her belief in God. 

What are the odds that I would see her again today? She is more frail. Life has not become any easier for her. And yet she still has a smile that lights up the world, toothless smile though it is. 

This is my point--What are the odds of seeing this firefly of a lady after the passing of several years?--not only the second time but this third time as well. I could have been mowing the back yard as she walked by. There was a very narrow range of time as she walked down the sidewalk where I could see her as I sat in my truck--just a couple of minutes. My detour to the sewing repair shop altered my arrival by 10 minutes or so. Traffic, the speed of traffic--there are so many variables. And yet there she was, walking right by me as I prepared to go mow a lawn.

What are the odds? Infinitesimal at the very best. 

But odds do not apply. This is the design of God as He coordinates daily life, giving it the same level of importance as He did when He planned creation, making certain planets to not crash into one another and the ocean's tides ebb and flow. Only He can set up and implement sets of circumstances such as these.

My one regret is that I did not ask her name or where she lived. It is my hope and prayer that the odds will once again be defied as God orders things, and our paths will once again cross.