Life's Little Things

 I just finished a small chore, you know, one of those everyday things like emptying the dishwasher or folding undershirts. It took just a few minutes, gave me a small dose of satisfaction, and no one but me thought about the fact that it needed to be done and was done. It was not important. At least it was not important to anyone but me. Or was it?

If all of us stopped doing all those hidden chores, we would soon discover the order, peace, and loveliness that we take for granted would begin to unravel before our eyes. Our homes would fill with disorder, trash, and discomfort. Those little things might not be so little after all.

Going deeper, I noticed that I didn't mind doing that little chore. I owned that chore. It gave me a certain pleasure. I looked forward to doing it, but I also looked forward to the day when I might not be able to do it any longer. When sickness or old age or unexpected poverty or loss would take that small pleasure from me forever. I would miss it.

We take in blessings like we breathe air. Do we think often enough not about our aches and pains, but about our comforts and pleasures? I can still see. There was a time when I couldn't hear. Surgery has restored much of it to me, so of that blessing I am acutely conscious. I strained by foot last spring. It took four months to get back to normal. How quickly I forgot that my foot didn't always feel as good as it does now.

I am trying to make a practice of expressing gratitude, not just for obvious things, but for the things that are just there all the time. It took a mission trip to serve Mexico's City's garbage dump people to become grateful that every time I turn on the faucet water flows out--water that is abundant, clean, and any temperature I desire. Take any one of those three things away and taking a shower becomes not a routine, but a hurdle.

Spending time reviewing my blessings has made me more peaceful and content. It has humbled me to admit I expect undeserved things. It has also made me more aware of the good in people around me. It makes me smile more. It draws me closer to the Giver. Because the One who cares about me, also cares about life's little things too.

Night Light

Sitting in the darkness

Of my living room at night

With the curtains open

Blackness outside in sight--

I could make out the shapes

Of landscape known to me,

But when I flicked the light on

Naught but blackness could I see.

It was as if the darkness

Pressed itself against the glass--

And tried to overpower

The light which through it passed.

A mirror it became to me

And seemed to make me feel

The world had gotten smaller--

My room was all that's real.

If I had only stepped outside

And looked back to my home,

I would see that room aglow,

A beacon to all who roam.

My Cheesy Dream

 

I had a crazy dream last night.

It truly was a frightful plight.

I brushed my hair and found I had

A case of dandruff really bad.

But soon it turned into disaster—

Flakes became like lumps of plaster.

I touched a lump and gave a squeeze…

Whoa! They were lumps of feta cheese!

Every minute or maybe two

Another lump appeared or quite a few.

Now this dream seems so very dumb.

I wonder where this stuff comes from?

Oh! By the way, please come for lunch.

I’d like to talk with you a bunch.

I’ll make the food, so come, do, please!

For salad, olives, and feta cheese.

Closeness

 A rubber band is made to stretch,

But its power is to contract.

It is a close binder of goods--

It unites what it keeps intact.

Love is a binder of people--

It surrounds as a loving net.

It stretches around to include,

It contracts to make intimate.

We can resist it till it snaps

Or wear out its pulling matter--

One is painful, one exhausting,

And in the end we all scatter.

Interruptions

 A small and languid river eddy

Swirls foamy bubbles round and round.

So slow, so weak, yet still it moves

The bubbles that to it are bound.

Some that break free and move along

Are snagged in yet another stall,

More slowly moving than the first

Where change comes hard or not at all.

Unhindered by the cloying banks

All this while the center flows--

A downhill slide in rippling chatter

As toward the sea it onward goes.

Road Trip

 Attired in myriad shades

Of green and asphalt

And sequined with bright splashes

Of reddish clover

And silvery maned grasses,

The countryside flashes by

As images of Magied camels

Compete with jaw-stretching yawns.

Time to change drivers.

Did He Really Say That?

There are lots of scripture passages that could be argued are the most important in the Bible. Any of the words of Jesus, the Ten Commandments, prophecies from the Old Testament, particularly Isaiah, might be among the contenders for most important passages in the Bible. And I would argue for many of those myself, but in this post, I am going to put forward Genesis 3:1, not as the most important, but very high in considering what your worldview is.

Now the snake was the most cunning* of all the wild animals that the LORD God had made. He asked the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You shall not eat from any of the trees in the garden’?”

This question was the turning point in all of human history. Whatever you believe about the Garden of Eden, or even about God, the devil, and Christianity, there is an important to point to notice. A choice was given: someone else's way or my way.

An important person in my life said to me about ten years ago, "When is somebody going to update the Bible?" It should be no wonder that this person has lost his way in terms of faith. His question really boils down to, "Did God really say that?" His suggestion is really saying, "God, get with the times! You are so outdated. You need to do it our way." 

If you are going to be a Christian, you need to know what Christianity is about. And once you have found out what it is about, if you aren't uncomfortable, then perhaps you still don't know what it's about. God said a lot of really uncomfortable things. He really said them. If you don't believe that the Bible is the inspired word of God, that it is a work of men, then revision seems a no-brainer. You can rewrite the Bible, but the end result will be a new religion. It will not be Christianity. But given that God really did say everything in the Bible, we should be very much not at ease.

Jesus did not say that the road to heaven was wide. He did not say that there was no hell, and if there is, it is empty. Jesus did not say if you are just a good person that is enough. He did not say that any religion or pathway can get you to heaven. It would be so much more comfortable if he had said those things. We would not have to be troubled by any inconveniences of religious practices. Our life would be unrestricted.

And that is where our culture has arrived: the removal of all restrictions.

In Exodus God outlines what the blessings will be if we live his way. He then outlines all the curses that will fall on us if we don't do things his way. He is a good parent. He gives the rules and tells what the consequences are if we don't follow them. Rules teach restraint, self-control. They teach us that we are not helpless victims of passions which rule us; rules give us control of ourselves. 

When you find out what happens if you don't obey God's rules, you should be afraid. Very afraid. And that's not bad. Proverbs 9:10 says, "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." A reverent, healthy fear of God is a good starting place. Our culture needs to get that back. Many of us have been cruising along doing things our own way, knowing that God, who we see as a sort of chump, will forgive us and let us into heaven anyway.

Jesus said many times, "Repent!" which basically means, "Change your life!" Change is hard, but he really said that, and we really need to listen.

Quilts and Perspective

Triangles, squares, and circles
Stitched in place to form
Patterns of a quilted spread
In colors bright and warm.

Bound together side by side
Larger shapes are made,
As triangles make a diamond
And squares become a frame.










Lines and curves enhance design
And flow along the seams.
Lights and darks become a guide
Revealing larger themes.

And when its done, a map is spread
With boundaries quite clear
Between the contrasts and the prints
Our eye is made to steer.

We see the plan: a united whole--
The vision becomes quite plain.
Together they are something more,
But distance shows our aim.

Drowsy

The weight of fecundity
In the greenery
Crushes more than a stratus sky.
Heavy, honey-scented air
And bumble bees buzzing
Are the reason why
I know the petals, stamen, stigma
Call for fertility,
Call for pollination,
Call for seeds to rise.
The weight of this demand
Makes me sleepy in the sun
And sluggish.

And the problem is...

When it is announced at Sunday mass that there is a holy day of obligation that week, you can almost feel the feet dragging and hear the groaning. A few eyes might roll. And yet we know that this is supposed to be a happy day, so why does it feel like such a burden?

Right now, the holy day is just one more thing we are obliged to do within our already overly committed schedules. It adds to the stress and fatigue without adding much joy to compensate. Over the years, I have noticed something though. When I decided to go to daily mass as often as possible, suddenly the days of obligation didn't seem like a big deal. Heck, I was already going anyway! While going to daily mass is a good thing, it is a choice. The only thing that holy days changed was that we tried to have a nice dessert that night. Well, at least that was something...

But it should be a day of joy. If we call them holy days of obligation, we send the wrong message: you are obliged to come to mass or go to hell. Why aren't they called holy days of celebration? A supporting culture would close stores, give everyone the day off, and we would have rip-roaring celebrations. Dream on. The secular culture does a better job with Fat Tuesday than Catholics do with virtually every holy day. Well, I admit that some of that secular celebrating obliges people to visit the confessional...

It doesn't help that the bishops sometimes don't make some of them days of obligation because it is just too much to ask people to acknowledge a holy day with mass attendance.

I have always been puzzled why Catholic schools don't cancel classes that day. What would get kids more exciting about a holy day than no school? Well, maybe if we have to have school in session, it would be an all-fun-and-no-homework day at the very least. As far as I can tell, the holy day only gets a nod and lectures and lessons go on as planned.

But I still feel that somehow our Catholic culture does not embrace holy days with the joy and celebratory attitude that they were intended to evoke. As Catholics, we need to get better at having a good party. Where are the parades, the costumes, the fireworks, the feasting, and the music? The problem is we stink at partying.

Being Beckoned

Recently I read the entire Horatio Hornblower series of books, and I also just completed the first book in the Master and Commander series. This reveals an obvious fascination with life on the sea during the Napoleonic era. Before the Industrial  Revolution and the age of machinery hit, men at sea were entirely dependent on and at the mercy of the weather to get anywhere. What becomes acutely obvious when reading these books is that a sensitivity to meteorological change meant the difference between life and death. Knowledge and skill in exploiting those changes heightened the chances of survival. Reading the winds meant escaping from the equatorial doldrums, riding the titanic storm, or outwitting the enemy in battle. Skillful maneuvering always brought high praise while poor seamanship elicited disdain of shipmates in the best circumstances, mutiny in the worst.

For most of us, our lives have become comfortable since then. We have to create situations to experience distress from the elements. We go camping, mountain hiking, surfing, and snorkeling to expose ourselves to the elements and danger. Watch the Olympics, and you wonder what new sport will be created by the time of the next Olympics for people to compete in, and how much more dangerous will the risks be. When I watched the skeleton competition (it's the opposite of luge where you go down the track on a tiny sled feet first on your back--skeleton is head first on your stomach), I could only wonder what kind of mind you had to have to go 80 plus miles per hour with your head only an inch from the track. Considered one of the most dangerous of Olympic events, it had difficulty getting accepted as a sport because of how risky it was. These people obviously love the challenge of danger.

We recently had a decently large snowfall. It created inconvenience and cancellations. There was no ducking this one. We had to face and deal with the weather. I find big snowfalls invigorating. I love to get outside and embrace it. I love to drive in it, shovel it, and stomp through it. Why? Because it is a challenge. I feel the weather is inviting me to come out and wrestle with it. And when that wind blows in my face, and my cheeks are chilly, and my legs begin to ache from wading through knee deep snow, I feel alive and that all is well. And when Horatio Hornblower or Lucky Jack Aubrey decline going to their cabin when the winds get strong and the rain is pelting down, I know that they also are glad to be alive and on deck. The elements beckon to them to meet the challenge.

I shouldn't be doing this right now.

It has been one month now since a vicious, relentless virus hit me, and I have not felt good since. Sinus pressure, choking on phlegm, hacking uncontrollably, headache, blah.

Christmas is four days away. I managed to get the Christmas tree up and listlessly threw a few ornaments its way. I put up the stockings. That may be it for decorating this year. I may only bake one kind of cookie. Being sick simplifies life.

My husband makes the best hot toddies in the world. His kindness this past month has kept me from becoming a puddle of weeping snot.

I should not be doing a blog post right now, but it takes little energy, and that's what I have. Only a little.

Life Is Good

I teach. Why do I do that? It is my passion. There is nothing more exhilarating to me than to see a face light up and get excited about my subject. When I teach, I am fully alive.

Some background. I went from kindergarten all the way through college without having a single teacher get me excited about their subject. I was convinced that teaching was the most boring, dead-end, passionless job one could choose. There were no role models for me.

Then I began teaching my own children. Here was a task with an incredible investment in it. To cover things that I couldn't do well myself, we joined a co-op where I had to teach others. The small experience I got there was like lighting a match in a room full of pure oxygen. A fire roared to life. I was hooked.

Find your passion. Your passion also just happens to be what you are good at! And then, if at all possible, find a way to make a living doing it. It is like putting the hot fudge sauce on the ice cream! It is slicing into a home-grown tomato from a plant you hovered over all summer. It is the killer serve you've perfected in your tennis game. What you have done has brought you joy. How good life is.

True Forgiveness

Suppose there are two people who we will call "A" and "B" for simplicity's sake. They live together with a brick wall around them for shelter and protection. One day they get into an argument that gets out of hand, and in the course of the dispute violence is done to the brick wall, and it falls down. They live for a while with the rubble around them, but then it becomes apparent that their hostile neighbors, cannibals, have discovered their vulnerability and are preparing to do something about it.

A approaches B and says that they should rebuild the wall together. B agrees but says that the broken wall was not his fault. A says that he is willing to repair his part of the wall, and B agrees to do his part. They both begin at the same spot to build a circular wall, the supposed plan being that they would meet again half way around the circle.

A begins to build. Ah, this feels good. He gets half way around the circle and looks up. B has assembled a few beginning blocks, but now considers his part finished. A has a problem. He could just say he did his part, but he can see the threat outside the wall growing. He could try and persuade B to do his part, but that might result in the half circle of wall getting broken down again. He decides to keep building.

A builds until he has come full circle. While he was building, B undid the little that he had done. Finally A puts the last brick in place. He approaches B and shakes his hand. B is satisfied because the wall is built again, and together they face the enemies with their wall of protection.

Sometimes life is like this. You meet people who are so willful and stubborn that they cannot give an inch. They will not admit wrongdoing. They are so blinded by your faults that they cannot see their own. These people don't compromise, and they don't become better people. If we can't escape them, we have to accept their brokenness. Sometimes this means we have to do more than our share. We have to repair not only what we have broken, but what they have broken too. It's not fair. But if we can do it and shake their hand without resentment, we have done all we can do. It is called forgiveness.

The best case scenario does not always happen. In fact, most of the time it doesn't. That's why walls get broken down in the first place. Someday B might just decide to build a roof over the wall to protect both of them against the elements and remind A every time it rains how much A owes him. And if A has truly forgiven B, he will simply say, "Thank  you."

Becoming God

There is a certain frustration we have all run into when arguing points with someone whose views are opposite to our own. Eventually the other party may come out with the line, "I don't trust your sources." There's not a lot you can say after that, since what they are really saying is, "What is true for you is not true for me." They have decided that your sources are unreliable, and so they are invalid. You may think the same about theirs.

It all boils down to trust. When we trust our sources, we are confident in what we believe. When valid doubt is cast upon their reliability, we find ourselves standing on sand. Edith Stein, a Jewish convert to Catholicism and a respected intellectual of her time, recognized the truth when she read it. She was so convinced that she went on to be martyred in a concentration camp and became St. Theresa Benedicta.

Trust is a basic part of life. Anyone who says, "I don't trust anyone" is a liar, unless of course, they don't have a bank account where they trust their money is there, don't expect anyone to stop at stop signs because they can't trust anyone to obey the law, or don't own anything because everyone is a virtual thief anyway. You'd turn into a crazy, paranoid anarchist if you didn't trust even some basic law-abiding ideas.

Some people cast doubt on anything from ancient history. Why make a distinction between what happened millennia ago and what happened yesterday? If we don't trust basic scholarship that has stood the test of time, then all history, even the most recent, ceases to have any meaning.

If we are honestly seeking the truth, we will look it in the face even when it disagrees with our most cherished assumptions. If we don't sometimes react with, "Rats!" when we find ourselves in opposition to the truth, then we must be on the road to sainthood. When we make ourselves the highest authority, then we will never find the truth, but we will insist on going our own way, and that is tragic. And we will have repeated the original mistake by making ourselves god.

The Greatest of These

My first thought upon waking this morning was a prayer: Lord, give me hope for today. Almost instantly I realized that my prayer was anticipated and already answered. I had been sleepless only a few hours earlier, and a memory from a couple of decades ago had come to mind. This memory constituted the hope that I had just asked for.

For the summer I had decided to teach my two oldest boys about butterflies. We made crude nets and started a contest. Every time one of the boys caught a butterfly that we hadn't caught before he would win a candy bar of his choice. We always admired the creatures in the net, identified them with our guidebook, and then released them. The easiest ones had already been caught, and the challenge was getting harder. On this particular morning both boys and I were out looking, and suddenly near Eric, the younger of the two, two tiger swallowtails flew within reach. I shouted to Eric to get them, but his older brother responded also, and in one great stroke swept both of them into his net. Eric was livid with outrage. Those were his butterflies. John had stolen them from him and gotten his prize. There was no consolation that appeased his anger.

Later the same day Eric and I were alone in the front yard. I encouraged him to keep trying to catch butterflies, but the resentment was still so strong. Eric was unwilling to make an effort at something about which he had become hopeless. At last a large butterfly came by. We both guessed it was a tiger swallowtail, and I encouraged him to try and catch it anyway just for the thrill of a closeup glimpse of it. He didn't want to do it because he wouldn't get the candy bar. At my insistence, he went ahead and tried. Swallowtails are large and fast and often fly too high to be caught, so I'm not exactly sure how Eric in high dudgeon managed to catch it, but he did. Imagine our astonishment when it opened its wings. It was not a tiger swallowtail, but a giant swallowtail--enormous and stunning. Eric's elation and my relief were complete.

It is a simple story of disappointment, perseverance, and joy, and one of my favorite memories. Sometimes we make our search for something too hard. It is right in front of us, and we just need to reach out to find it. Faith can be like that. God shows himself in simple ways, and we need the eyes of a child to see him. We also need to make an effort--to hope when despair is easier--and sometimes that effort is against our very will. We aren't always answered in the way we expect, but the key is recognizing that we did get an answer after all. God doesn't always say yes. Nor does he always answer why.

But this story is special on another level. When that butterfly opened its wings, we both gasped. The wingspan was beyond the width of my palm, the specimen was in pristine condition, and the dramatic black with spotted yellow lines was astonishing in its beauty. As I remembered that event this morning, I felt God bend down and kiss my boy on the forehead. Faith and hope--I witnessed for sure on this day--but greater than these is love.

The Guy in Front

Today on the highway someone slowed down unexpectedly in front of me. I had to slam on the brakes, hurling all the stuff on the front seat to the floor. I managed to swerve to the shoulder and did not rear end the car in front of me. It brought to mind a similar highway incident over ten years ago.

I was on the highway with a semi in front of me and a semi approaching me from behind. The truck driver in front of me realized he missed his exit, came to a complete halt, and appeared to want to back up to get to the ramp! I could not go around him because the left lane was full of traffic, and in the rear-view mirror I saw the approaching truck getting more massive in the reflection by the split second. I thought, This is it. My three children in the back seat and I are going to be pancakes. I began to scream what I hoped was a prayer. The approaching truck was able to veer off onto the exit ramp that the idiot in front of me missed. He came to a stop next to my car. I looked over at him and then put my head down on the steering wheel. Death had been so close.

I think often of those two truck drivers--forgiving one and thanking the other. Sometimes our thoughtlessness causes pain for others. Sometimes our foresight rescues others. Sometimes we are just in the middle, helpless, and praying for release. It is hard being in the middle. We like to think of ourselves as ones with the presence of mind to avoid a tragedy. It is humbling to realize that sometimes we are only thinking of our own dilemma and not realizing how it is adversely affecting others. We might be like the guy in front.

A Penny and a Smile

A businessman strode down the sidewalk full of thoughts about meetings and decisions for that day. His pace slackened, and he scowled when a beggar approached him. The ragged man held out his hand. In it was one shiny penny.

"Please, sir, take this penny from me." Then he smiled warmly. Taken aback that a beggar would be giving things away, the man took the penny automatically, too distracted by the oddness of the situation to hear him wished a good day by the homeless man. The businessman tossed it a few times as he continued down the sidewalk and put it in his pocket.

When he pulled his hand out of his pocket, the penny was still in it. He tried to drop it in again, but it stayed there. Thinking there was something sticky on it, he examined it. It was clean and slick. He decided to just throw it away. It would not leave his hand. He put his hand back in his pocket. He drew it out again. The penny was still there.

By now he had reached his regular coffee stop. Noticing the "Give a penny, take a penny" dish, he tossed the penny in the bowl. There it lay. But when he reached for his espresso, there was still a penny in his hand. Puzzled, he put his hand in his pocket and took the coffee with his left hand. He took the penny out again and put it in the dish. Now there were two pennies in the dish, and there was still a penny in his hand. He shrugged. "Lots of extra changed today," he said to the cashier.

At work the penny stayed in his pocket, but he could feel it there and found he was turning it over in his fingers during several boring meetings. Annoyed with himself for fiddling with it, he slyly walked up to a co-worker who was concentrating hard before his computer. "A penny for your thoughts," he said, and smiled coyly. The co-worker just rolled his eyes, but he took the penny. Sighing with relief the man moved on, putting his hands in his pockets as he slipped around the corner. There was a penny in the bottom of the pocket again. He peeked around the corner. His co-worker was back to work, apparently unhindered by sticky pennies.

All day long he tried to get rid of the penny. He included it with his tip at lunchtime. He gave it to a cute kid on the street. He washed his hands to see if there was residue on them. Nothing worked. There was always a penny still in his pocket.

On the way home he was still fingering the coin in his pocket when he saw the same homeless man that gave him the penny in the morning. The man was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, his head bowed down. Perhaps he was asleep. Just as the businessman reached him, the beggar raised his head. The businessman reached down, smiled broadly, and put the penny in his hand. The beggar smiled back, a childish innocent smile. The businessman laughed.

Once the businessman was out of sight, the beggar put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a whole handful of pennies and began to count. There was just enough for a pint or a hot meal. For the third day running, he chose the hot meal.

Tree Hugging--Do It

A few months ago I met an Irishman in Edinburgh while at my daughter's graduation from the university there. The first question that was most pressing on his mind to ask me, as an American, was if we really made our houses out of wood. He was most astonished at my affirmative answer. His astonishment continued to amuse me as we, my husband and I, went on to tell him a lot of things about America, specifically the Midwest. Our blasé attitude toward tornadoes, for instance. The possibility of being within a continent of them was chilling to his sensibilities. But what we told him we paid for healthcare almost made him faint. It was a fun conversation which I will not soon forget.

Recently I was reading some reflections by G.K. Chesterton on his travels to the United States. He also was dumbfounded that we made houses out of trees. What is this about?

First of all, one must realize what British and Irish houses are made out of: stone. Stone that lasts. Stone that will still be there centuries from now. Stone that is solid. It won't be blown down, rot, or wear away at a rate that is concerning to any one home owner. They'll be long dead before they have to worry about the effects of erosion. Their gardens are walled and terraced with stone. Their sidewalks and pavement are sometimes cobblestone. Stone is, in fact, what they think of as building material. Trees, they do not.

I can't speak for Irish trees, but British ones are close to sacred. A tree planted is not cut down. It is revered, protected, and built around. You have to walk down a street called "Beech Lane" to appreciate the fact that, old as the houses may be, the trees are older still. Most I could I not get my arms around, and many would have taken several people to ring it in a hug. While the Irishman was astounded at our wood homes, I was speechless at the British trees. I began to appreciate all the literature I've read that takes a few moments to describe, in reverent tones, the trees that the gentry loved and lived with.

Americans are still settlers--people on the move. Trees were in abundance when Europeans arrived here, and it was expedient to build shelter immediately. A few generations of wood-home dwellers, and a new custom is established. We have yet to appreciate things of permanence, and both trees and homes are often tossed aside for the latest and newest. I once heard a humorous definition of a developer: someone who cuts down all the trees, builds houses, and names the streets after the trees he cut down. If  you start paying attention to street names, you realize how ridiculous they often are: Blueberry Ridge in a perfectly flat area, for instance. But "Beech Lane" you will not find in America for a few more centuries.

If you live in Michigan, it should be required for residence that you visit Hartwick Pines State Park to see what Michigan used to be covered with: white pine forests with tree trunks eight feet in diameter. Hartwick Pines is the only virgin pine stand left in the lower peninsula. The forest is a natural cathedral that inspires awe and silence.

All this said, I am not ashamed to live in a wood home. Wood is a renewable resource, it is flexible, affordable, and easy to use. The American Dream is to own a home. Trees make that possible. But I am also glad to be able to say I have white pines in my yard--for me, but also not for me--but for someone I will not meet in my lifetime. I hope the pines are there until it takes a whole family to ring it round in one big hug.

Less Than Desired

I just saw another one of those "Eat this and never diet again" posts. They are like a seductive voice tempting people to just believe their lies, and their dreams will come true. Here's how it really works. If you're not the weight you want to be, then you need to eat less and exercise more--preferably weight lifting and resistance exercises that build muscles which burn more calories up to maintain than fat does. Then when you are down to the weight you want to be, you step on the freaking bathroom scale every morning. If it shows you are over your ideal weight by even half a pound, you eat less than day. If you find you are eating less than you want nearly every day, you have it about right.