A Tiny Grief

My friends are used to hearing me cluck and mumble about how badly I want a baby.  Even now, at my advanced age, I long for the warm little body, the sweet smell, the incarnate love that is a baby.  All my life I have either had a baby or had this longing for a baby.  It will be with me until I die.

Yesterday, while minding my own business at The Store, I received a call from DFS offering us not one but four foster children, the oldest being 3-year-old twins.  We are not registered foster parents.  I believe I've spoken here before about how our own children got through childhood relatively normal by the pure grace of God.  This was going to be a "kinship" placement, meaning we know the family involved and they had given the caseworker our information as a possibility.  I must tread lightly here so as not to violate anyone's privacy.  If you know who I'm talking about, please keep mum about it.

The fact is, according to the case worker, that every foster home in our county is full to capacity.  Part of the May 22, 2011 damage was a great loss of foster homes, and there were far too few to begin with.  Hub and I talked it over and decided that, with maneuvers that would make Bobby Fischer scratch his head, we could just about pull it off.  Sons numbers three and four were reluctant but cooperative in helping us prepare for the home visit at 9:00 that night.  We were ready.  Those of you who have seen our house may now pick your jaws up from the floor.

Son number one, a social worker, agreed with us that it would be murderously hard to undertake four tiny children on less than 24-hours notice, but that it was the right thing to do.  Aside from this one lone voice of support not one person, not one, thought we should do this.  Son number two was nearly in tears as we discussed the situation.  He had a long list of objections and every one of them was legitimate.

My reasons for going forward were also legitimate.  First, I had and have been praying for these children and the entire family.  I prayed for their safety, for their emotional well being, that they would land somewhere safe, where they would find compassion, patience, acceptance, and love.  That ultimately - the ultimate ultimately when it is all settled and they are a re-united family or not - they would receive the best situation for them, whatever that looks like, so that they could grow up as undamaged as possible.  Having prayed that for them by name, repeatedly and with great passion, how could I say it would be too inconvenient or too expensive or too hard to move over a bit and make room for them?  How could I say it was too great a sacrifice to change their diapers, fill their bottles, wipe their noses, and tie their shoes.  Those are such small things, and so needful to these bewildered and beleaguered children.

Second, I have over the past four months or so, been praying for the sake of my own soul that whatsoever doors are opened, I will with faith walk through them.  That I will do what is given me to do unless the Lord Himself stands in front of me.  Now this scares me every day, and it scares me more now that I see it in print.  I know I don't always live it.  I fail daily.  But I wasn't going to miss something this obvious.  I hadn't sought these children.  How dare I turn them away when He had sent them, the least of these?

So we plotted and cleaned and I began to mother them in my heart.*  We met with the case worker.  We were accepted and approved and starting to get really nervous.  Then he told us that he had to notify the other family that they wouldn't be needed after all.  What?  What other family?  We thought there was no other family?  But there was.  There was a foster family that was willing and prepared to take them all.  So we did the right thing and let them go to the family that could give them the best care.  We let them go to the family with the mommy who could really be there for them 24/7 as I could not.  We let them go to the family that already had the beds and the toys and the training in place.  And in spite of ourselves we were relieved.  And sad.

I went to bed feeling as though I had betrayed them somehow, even though I know full well that they are better off.  All day today they have been on my mind.  As I pored over Florida Bar v. Brumbaugh with my eyes, my mind was thinking that, if things had gone differently, it would be bath time, with bubbles and rubber ducks.  That it would be time for stories and snuggles.  That we could be having glorious fun with play doh and our hundreds of cookie cutters. That I would be giving someone a bottle, and receiving more nourishment from the experience than the baby was.  And there is an ache in my heart that wasn't there before yesterday.  I am having a tiny grief for a lost possibility.  I know myself well enough to know that I will always, to a certain degree, regret the decision we made.  You will all see me and I won't look any different, but I'll be different.  I'll be the one mourning the loss of four potentialities.


*Nod to Anne.

Under the Piano

Some dear people in our acquaintance recently lost their 36-year-old daughter to an aneurism.   It was obviously unexpected.  Aneurisms do not send notice. 

To:  Mrs. Happily Unaware

       111 Oblivious Way

Dear Mrs. Unaware;

A representative of our conglomerate will be calling on you at . . .

Remember that old movie device where someone on a city sidewalk would be struck by a falling piano?  This particular family seems to be perpetually under the piano.  I know we live in a fallen world and bad things happen, even to very good people, and God is good.  I know and believe He is good.  Still I wonder why some are such piano-magnets.

I haven’t spoken to this family.  I haven’t written a note.  I know I should.  Words, after all, are “my thing.”  On this instance, however, the muse has been silent.  What a crock of cop-out.  But it is true that I don’t know what to say.  Even the sweet truth that God is faithful, a truth that they know through experience far better than I, sounds like a platitude at a time like this.  Still, it is the only comfort there is. 

What I would like to say is that it has all been a horrible mistake.  That their daughter is not gone.  That she’s just been vacationing in some small Amish village where there is no cell service.  That she will be dropping by soon to hug them and collect her three children and return to the life she had been living on Oblivious Way until last week when she went to bed Unaware and they thought she had slipped away to Heaven.  She had really only slipped away to Iowa, and the Heaven journey is scheduled for later.  Much later.  After they have gone ahead of her.  Because parents should never outlive their children.  Never. 

Of all of life’s blessings, children are by far the best.  And of all losses, this is by far the worst.  While this sweet family would not deprive their daughter of Heaven, would not snatch her back to this hard life after the rest she has found, they would give anything and everything short of their souls and their other children to turn back time and somehow change this before the fact. 

This family is already under the shadow of another piano, rocking in the wind and worrying at its fraying strap.  Let us pray for them.  Let us pray for one another without ceasing.  In the end it is really the best we can offer one another.  In the end, we are all under the piano.

Happy Happy

Today is my birthday.  It is the last birthday I will celebrate that begins with a 4, unless I live another 351 years.  I've officially completed forty-nine years of life and am, like it or not, leaping into my fiftieth.  I am approaching my sixth decade.  Sixth.  Decade.  Not sure, but I may be just a bit freaked out about that.  My predominant thought is that I have arrived here with largely empty hands.  I do have four amazing sons; clearly they are God's work, not mine. Lest we get sucked down the rabbit hole of All Good Things Are God's Work, let's just agree to agree that this is true, and let it stand.

I'm currently sitting at Panera with a Chai Tea Latte - my treat of choice - and I'm trying to look with sober judgement on the year past, and clear-eyed calculation toward the year ahead.  Today I want to plant a stake.  I want to use this year well.  I want to begin strong and arrive at the end a better person; stronger, smarter, just better.  I feel on the cusp of something and believe it is important to do this evaluation today.  Now is the hour.

So, what to do?  I've been thinking a lot about that question these last few weeks.  My various journals are full of lists of resolutions and quasi-goals.  My mission today was to finalize those goals; to think and pray and write until I arrive at some clarity.  I'm notorious for over-thinking, and I outdid myself this time.  I made a long list of goals - champagne wishes and caviar dreams.  Then I organized them into twelve life-areas in which I am most in need of change.  I cross-referenced them, of course, so the future me won't think the present/past me didn't realize that some things can be listed in more than one category.  I wouldn't want the future me to think the present/past me was lacking vision or imagination.  Clearly, one of us is a nerd.  And I may be a bit too concerned about what I think of myself at some future time.

I will tell you about this, of course, but not all today.  As I figure it out I'll share it, one byte at a time.  You're welcome. 

But here's a beginning.

I providentially came across Whole Living magazine's January edition, in which they outline a new-year kick-start; 28 days to detox and begin new, healthier routines.  As I was eating my bigger-than-my-head carrot muffin with cream cheese frosting and lemon-cream cheese filling, it occurred to me that an overhaul of my eating habits is an appropriate place to begin, and so I shall.  A detoxified blood stream is a sure step toward a clearer mind and if I follow this little four-week program faithfully I will be moving along the path toward multiple goals.  Gotta love multitasking.   I need a few days to procure the right food and other necessary accoutrements, so I tentatively plan to begin Week One on Monday.  I will post again before then with the details, life notwithstanding, but if you want to, poke around the pertinent online content.  Maybe you'll be inspired to join in.

Coming up, we will discuss health and self-care more fully, as well as mental and intellectual improvement; spiritual development; responsible financial practices; (personal) environment; artistic (visual), literary, and musical expression/appreciation; improvement in relational and social arenas; practice of homely arts; and some stuff that didn't comfortably fit anywhere.  As always I covet your comments.  I would love to see this blog develop into a community.

See you on the next page!

A Short Treatise on the Miracle of the Sacrament of Holy Communion

Lance taught our class on Sunday, and his topic was miracles:  how they occur daily and how we know this; how believing some things means we automatically believe certain other things; how we in the Church are recipients/participants in regular miracles i.e. the Mysteries or Sacraments of baptism and communion.  Today we are going to speak of communion.  And I'm going to make it personal.  Buckle up.

If there is truth in Christ's words about His body broken for us and His blood shed for us, then communion is a miracle.  Even if we don't go so far as to believe, as the Catholic Church teaches, that the bread and wine actually become the literal flesh and blood of the physical Christ, the miracle is no less for that.  The miracle lies in the manifold purpose of the sacrament.

Communion is where my self-examined soul is cast at Christ's feet and acknowledgement is made of my very real need of His grace.  His gift of sacrifice.  His flesh.  His blood.  Without them, my wretched soul is worthy of nothing better than hell because of my misdirected life and wicked choices.  My freely chosen sin.  My open and repeated choosing of self above all.  Self determination has only one end:  destruction.  So in communion I quiet myself, look into His face - His beautiful face full of love and forgiveness, and choose to accept His gift. I confess my need for it, my unworthiness to receive it on my own merit; I have nothing - nothing - to offer but filthy rags.  Then I consciously and thoughtfully step forward, saying "These are my sins, these are why You died.  So I could do these stupid, selfish things, and yet live." and "Yes, I will cast my pitiful lot with You.  I will bear Your banner.  I will pledge You my loyalty.  I will accept Your death to cover and wash and clothe me in righteousness.  I covenant myself to You again."  Then I eat that bit of bread, thinking and saying "Your flesh, Your body, for me."  And I take the cup and drink, thinking and saying "Your blood, for me."  This is communion for me; my coming into community with God through Christ.

That's part of the miracle.

I have heard many times from the pulpit that communion is not meant to be private or individual, but a public family feast.  Here's a bit more of the miracle:

Communion must be private in order to be meaningful.  Every soul must be washed anew and joined anew to the heart of God.  Every heart must be turned Godward.  No-one can do that for you but you.  No-one can do it for me but me.  If I really partake of communion meaningfully, thoughtfully, and prayerfully, I will emerge a better person because I will have been with Jesus, and have asked and received Him into myself.  If you thoughtfully, truly take communion you will emerge a better person.  We will be better citizens of His kingdom, and better neighbors in the world.  We will be a more Christlike Church.  We will care more for each other as members of His body.  Because we love Him better, we will love one another better.  We just will.  We will be in community.

Here's another part of the miracle:  Although I am doing this dance alone with Jesus and you are doing your dance alone with Jesus, we are dancing together, along with every other Christian alive or dead, past, present, or future, because His Church exists beyond time.  I imagine this thought is too Catholic for our protestant brotherhood to swallow, but it is still true, it is still a miracle, and it is still very very cool.

Having written thus, I think I have a better idea what the good vicar is trying to achieve with the idea of the communion "family meal."  I can see here a bit of what we get a picture of in those medieval books (I am thinking here of the Redwall books) where the Badgers and Squirrels are having a meal together on the eve of a hopeless battle; a battle in which many of them will die.  In this scenario, they are sharing a deeply meaningful repast, likely passing bread hand-to-hand, sober, mindful of coming death, but alight with a flame of sacrifice for a shared and holy cause.  They are devoted to one another, pledging to one another their lives.  They are focused.  They are communing.  This is not what happens at College Heights communion stations.

Pastor has also spoken of how, as he has grown older, it has become so sweet to watch the generations of his family interact.  They care for each other with such tenderness, there is so much joy at just being together.  This is not what happens at College Heights communion stations.

Obviously I cannot be inside every head at communion time.  I cannot read anyone's heart.  I do know what I see and what I hear.  What I see is a lot of people not sure where they are supposed to go, when to go, or what to do.  What I hear is gossip, flirting, scolding, and lunch plans being made -- about what you'd hear in any queue.  I can't say that the use of stations isn't or can't be a meaningful way to stage communion.  I can say that isn't so for me.  I find it awkward, chaotic, distracting, and loud.  I don't take communion on communion station days because  of this Scripture:

Whoever therefore eats from the bread of THE LORD JEHOVAH and drinks from his cup and is unworthy of it, is guilty for the blood of THE LORD JEHOVAH and for his body. Because of this, let a man search his soul, and then eat of this bread and drink from this cup. For whoever eats and drinks from it being unworthy, eats and drinks a guilty verdict into his soul for not distinguishing the body of THE LORD JEHOVAH. 1 Corinthians 11:23-29, Aramaic Bible in Plain English


Number Three Son suggested I carry a flask and a loaf of Wonder Bread so that, if it's a communion station day, I can go off to a quiet corner and do my communion in the way that fits my conscience.  One problem with that idea; College Heights does not have a quiet corner.  Anywhere.  Ever.  But that's a rant for another day.

The Retreating Woman

My friend is in the middle of a month-long sabbatical.  She has gone to the woods to meditate on her life as it is and as she wills it to become.  She is recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia and several other conditions; she needs to take some time to figure out how to live as a person with physical challenges. She is also facing a looming empty nest; she wants to explore what opportunities this could bring over the next few years, to balance well her gains and losses.  She does not want to become a lonely pea rattling about in an empty pod.

She has been preparing for this retreat, as she calls it, for several months.  She packed books, art supplies, exercise dvds - she is ready to make it a really productive and worthwhile time.

I miss my regular weekly coffee hour with her, having her beside me in worship, the occasional impromptu girls' outing.  I admire her for taking the initiative to arrange this for herself, the courage to carry it out, and the value I know she will derive from it.  I could say I envy her opportunity, and that would be true, but I also know that what she manages to get done with her month of June and what I would achieve under the same circumstances are two vastly different things.

She will rest, as she needs to do, but she will also make good use of the time she now has to use her art supplies without inhibition, to journal for hours without interruption, to walk in the woods and commune with the Maker, to eat good plain food, to exercise.  I would not.  Which may well be why she received this gift and I did not, aside from the tiny detail that she asked and I didn't.

If I were dropped in the woods alone I would hide in the cabin and sleep.  I would venture forth only as far as the nearest convenience store, where I would load up on my carb-of-the-day.  I would read fluffy novels - nothing challenging, certainly, although I would take a metric ton of serious-sounding books with me, to impress . . . me?  I don't know.  I would also take a large boxful of silly movies.  For me, it would be just one long lost weekend.

I would not walk in the woods because nature scares me.  It is, I have discovered, not at all like Uncle Disney portrayed it.  I've never received much help from the little furry or feathery creatures, even though I have been known to wander about, clutching my white throat with my tiny hands, sighing and tearful.  Usually I've done this after I have discovered that one of the furry creatures has eviscerated one of the feathery ones, and left largish gory bits strewn about.  I find this distressing.

I did hear from my absent friend this week.  She borrowed a computer to send me her mailing address, as I intended to write.  It took her half of her month away to accomplish this, and I am delighted; I want her to do just as she feels will benefit her and accomplish the significant goals she set for this experience.  I was writing to her anyway, and was going to letter-bomb her when she returned.  I'm thoughtful that way.

Have you ever thought about a sabbatical?  Have you ever seriously considered one?  Seriously enough to pray for circumstances to allow one?  Where would you go?  What would you plan to do?  What would you really do?  My friend intends to return completely renewed.  Can you top that?

Boys of Summer

I've always felt a certain sadness at the phrase The Boys of Summer.  It has an ephemeral quality that I find very affecting.

Little League season has come and gone, at least for our local teams, and none of my boys played this summer.  I miss Little League terribly because its absence marks something that was a large part of our family summer but has now passed into history unmourned by any but me.

The end of our Little League era is a small part of the boys' moving away from me.  Their learning to drive is part of this, first jobs, college classes.  It is all good and right, and I'm glad for it because they need to do it.  They are becoming more and more the men they were meant to be, and I am inexpressibly proud of them.  I love the men they are; godly, strong and independent, marvelously creative, loyal to their friends and devoted to their beliefs.  I love the men they are, but I miss the boys they were.

Down the block stands a house where I have never seen anyone about.  There's a screened room on the side that for three years has held a baby's exersaucer, but I've never seen a baby in it.  Last week I saw those folks putting up a swing set.  I nearly stopped to comment on how fortunate - how blessed - they are to have a child in their lives.  I so miss the swing set days.

After the tornado, my little Rosebud and her family moved away, but she had already stopped coming to our house every day.  By the time she was four she had three younger siblings; her parents felt the need of a family nanny.  She went away quite suddenly after four years of daily visits.  I thought I would have another year to let her go.  She telephoned me on a recent morning on her way to preschool.  I felt I would bleed to death right there on the phone.

I don't currently have any children in my life under the age of fifteen, and it is a poverty.

I'm glad I didn't have more children for their own sakes, because I am a world-class bad parent.  But oh, I wish I had had more.  I wish I could have more now.  Mostly I wish I could go back and be a better mama to the ones I had.  And yes, I sometimes wallow in these regrets.

Gift on Waking

As we stand in Heaven and watch the memory of ourselves grow dimmer on the earth, we categorize the phenomenon among the things that just don't matter, as we ourselves grow ever brighter in the presence of Ultimate Reality.

Grace, A Year Later

Today is the anniversary of the most dramatic and galvanizing event in the history of our small city; it is Tornado Day.  Everyone here was impacted, some in ways unutterably horrific and some, like myself, with only inconvenience and irritation.

Only inconvenience is the answer I gave, and usually still give, when asked if the storm "got us".  The storm "got us" most significantly by allowing us and those we love to be bathed in grace. 

The storm took down a building where we (Hub) had a young man working, the son of my dearest friend.  For hours we thought he was gone.  For hours men dug with bare hands and back hoes.  One of them was the boy's father, thinking and feeling what can be known only to a father facing a gut-wrenching near certainty of unspeakable loss.  One was my Hub, fighting tears and time.  Both, and many others, fighting for Stephen; desperate to find him, desperately hoping he would be found elsewhere, safe and well.  I felt, in some weird, metaphysical way, responsible.  I was trying to help my friend, his mother, hold onto hope while trying to push aside the paralyzing thought of how I could ever face her if. 

Across town, drama was playing out in a different way.  You certainly know the story of Malachi, The Boy Who Lived.  Malachi survived a blow to the face by a cement block, which should have killed him instantly, was helped by friends who, providentially nearby and providentially prepared, gave him the proper treatment and carried him to the hospital.  The triage team didn't know where he was when his family arrived.  It was a war zone there, and there was not time for niceties like insurance information or, often, for patient names.  There was no billing by the hospital that night; helping people became paramount.  Malachi's family searched for him room-by-room and bed-by-bed.  When he was found on a stretcher in a side hallway they were told that patients put there were seriously injured but stable enough to wait; many weren't.  He was bathed in grace.

While searching for Malachi, his brother found Stephen, unhurt but stunned and shocky, contacted his family, and sat with him and kept him present until his father arrived.  Hearing the storm approaching, he had gone not to the designated "safe area" in the building but to the bathroom adjacent to it.  The safe area was destroyed, but he walked out of the bathroom unhurt.  He should have been killed, but wasn't.  He was bathed in grace.

Rumors were flying that night, of course.  Malachi's sister was receiving texts asking if it was true that Malachi had been killed before she had even been told that he had been injured.  A person who would send a text like this is more reptile than human.  My first notice, not that I'm anyone, was someone receiving a text and casually (not, but sounded so) stating that Malachi was heading for surgery and was not expected to survive.  Again, not true.  Please, please, if you have any shred of human decency and are ever unfortunate to be present at such a disaster, please do not phone, text, email, or speak any "news" of which you yourself are not personally witness.  It is not the time for gossip.  The truth is hard enough in such circumstances, and it is hard enough to communicate with the physical and electronic systems all clogged by frantic people trying to find the truth about those they desperately love.  Keep your mouth shut, your fingers off the buttons, and if you have to talk things over, do it in prayer.

Malachi was at my house last night, making music with friends.  He is as awesome as he's always been.  He has a few small scars but his face is unmarked.  He is more thoughtful, perhaps, than a year before.  Or perhaps he is just more determined to voice his heart, which he regularly puts on display at frictionlesstea.blogspot.com

Stephen starts a new job today, so will be around here less often for a while and he'll be missed.

I care deeply for both these young men, the sons of my friends, and friends of my sons.  (How cool is that?)  I am thankful every day that they were spared when so many, equally beloved, were taken.  We need to remember the One who protected their lives, and we need to remember those who were lost.  We need to remember not the storm, but the Calmer of the storm, and the fact that we who belong to Him, whether present in time or out of time into eternity, are awash in limitless grace.

Fighting the Midnight Monster

I recently heard a minister say that on a regular basis he is awakened early in the morning with a feeling of writhing humiliation; all his doubts, all his fears, all his failings and regrets are played on the big-screen of his imagination on an endless loop.

I am familiar with this phenomenon because I too suffer from middle-of-the-night remorse.  Probably you do too, because I suspect we have a common enemy who loves to kick us when our defenses are low.  When our biorhythms are in a trough and our bodies desperately long for more sleep, while we lie in the oppressive quiet, in the moments when we are all four years old -- afraid of the dark and afraid to turn on the light -- he whispers to us not lies, but the truth of our own memories, our own failures, our own worst moments.  We toss on our hot pillows, reliving in vivid technicolor sins which our merciful Father has utterly forgotten.  If we pray it is with the strength of a starving kitten, mewling for that of which we have already abundantly received.  We waste our precious moments of prayer brooding over actions and decisions that matter to Him not at all.

The other morning while in the midst of this godless practice, it occurred to me that I do not have the right to cling to this guilt, or to continue to wallow in what, if the Scriptures are true, is gone.  Gone.  There is a song, currently popular,which contains the line "I don't have time to maintain these regrets."  Not only have I not time, I have not authority to continually take back what I have released and had taken away.  Jesus died with this on His shoulders.  I've given it to Him and I have no more right to take it back than to take back anything else I've given Him.  My time, my money, my children and friends, my past, they are all His to carry. 

Having said that, and rather emphatically, let me forestall your first obvious objection.  From time to time, we need to look back over the paths we've taken so that we can gain wisdom for the path ahead, or to help someone avoid or escape a trap into which we have previously fallen.  This learning from experience lends value to the pain we've felt, and the pain we've caused.

We also face natural consequences.  He saves us from ultimate justice, but usually lets us roll with the consequences.  This is often painful as consequences can impact those we love most dearly.  This tends to be a contributing factor to that early morning guilt-wallowing.  Consequences are real and present, but it doesn't mitigate the fact that we must face down our tormentor at such times; he knows our sins are gone, but wants us to forget.  We are enjoined in Hebrews 4:16 to approach the throne of grace with confidence.  Let us so do and ask our Father to help us deal manfully, graciously, and appropriately with our consequences.

See you on the next page!

Deb

Small Rant, Revisited

The Hub recently got a new contract - yay! - and was starting to feel that things may be on a slight upturn.  If you've read this post, you will no doubt know the rest of the story.

The young lady engaged to fulfill the contract brought her boy friend to work with her.  The boy was so fortunate as to find a "thrown away" laptop under a desk and was just carrying it out when he was stopped by a security guard. 

The young lady has lost her job and may be in deeper trouble because apparently the boy is blaming the "finding" on her.  Hub lost the contract.  Boyfriend lost only an opportunity.  I'm sure he hasn't lost the girl; girls are insanely loyal to parasitic user/abuser boys like this.  If he does leave her - and it always the boy who does the leaving - there is an endless string of likewise worthless boys waiting to take his place.  This type of girl is ever lonely, but never alone.

Patty and Constantine, Closet Edition

I decided to remove some of what's hanging in my closet so I can hang more of what I actually wear that is currently piled about the room.  Patty and Constantine showed up to help, of course.  It was brutal.

Patty didn't want to try on anything.  She chose a few things that she deemed currently difficult, meaning we are lacking ideas or pieces to make them wearable.  She was all for just squishing everything tightly together and squeezing stuff in haphazardly; a method which, Constantine observed, has served us so well up to this point.

Constantine insisted we try on dresses which, consequently, are going into storage.  Then we started on skirts.  After the first couple, Patty was discouraged and wanted to just chuck the lot into a box but Constantine insisted.  Follows the transcript:

"You have piggied yourself into a state of not being able to wear any of your dresses or skirts and you will try on every one of them, by which time perhaps the image of straining buttons and zippers that refuse to close will have burned into your retinas and will come back to you when you want to breakfast on cake rather than oatmeal."

"Hey, this one fits.  We can keep this one."

"Just because you can fasten it does not mean it fits.  You look like a sausage with a string tied around its middle.  In the box it goes."

"This is depressing.  Let's go eat some cake."

Net result of this exercise?  Three dresses and twelve skirts removed from the closet, along with a handful of Patty's "currently difficult" pieces.  None of us has had the strength to face the trousers yet.

I Got a Name

Like most of you, I actually have several names.  To those who know me best, who profess to like me, I'm Deb.  To most of the folks at The Store I'm Deborah.  To my often-mortified sons I'm Mo-o-Ther (exclamation point and rolling eyes optional).

And, like most of you I have several distinct personalities living in my (wish-it-were) small frame.  Predominantly there's the inner brat.  You've all met her.  She was easy to name; she's obviously Patty, and couldn't have been anyone else.

Recently at girls' group we were discussing possible names for this other person, the person I want to be and want everyone to think I am.  Someone suggested Esther.  So Esther it was, for the moment, but Esther didn't stick.  I want this person to be strong.  Strong of will, strong of back, strong of conviction.  I want her brisk and efficient, no-nonsense, and laser-focused.  Esther has too much softness.  Softness is good, but that has another name; it has no place in the person I'm currently cultivating.

I thought about Constance, which is very close but not quite just it.  You see, this person has a name already; I just needed to find it so that I can harness her power in my outer life.  And I have found it.  I got a name, and that name is Constantine.

This week I have thought about and spoken to Constantine quite a bit, and have seen good things beginning to develop.  Constantine wrote half a dozen cards of encouragement, and actually stamped them and put them in the post while Patty sulked and complained.  Constantine made bread three time, while Patty trailed her fingers in the butter and whined about achy feet.  Patty has earmarked five pairs of shoes on deep discount at The Store; Constantine is sniffing in derision and mentally counting the unworn shoes Patty already has.  Constantine does not always win, but she always makes things a bit harder for Patty.  When Patty does get her way it is always with Constantine's aquiescence.  Constantine may not be soft but she does understand that Patty must be allowed some limited freedom or eventually she will break out, and at such time we will all face major payback; Patty gives little grace.

So we have the yin and yang, the black and white, the back and forth of Patty and Constantine.  Is there anyone else?  Of course, but two microphones is all I can handle just now.  Once I get these two balanced we'll bring in some other voices.  Any suggestions?

Prosaic Ode to a Bad Poem

I had a middle-of-the-night word-attack, and it turned out to be poetry.  Apparently, very bad poetry.  Actually thought it was lyrics, which is new for me, but it was only bad, bad poetry.  My musical son-number-four smiled through reading it, bemused and perplexed.  This is never the reaction one hopes for when the story line is sad and slightly hopeless; then he told me he isn't good at composing music for pre-existing lyrics. 

So it seems I've come full circle.  I'm back to the maudlin, unstructured, somewhat strained angst-poetry of adolescence.  Yikes.  Of the very few things I would like to recapture from that time, bad poetry lies somewhere between "mutant psychopathic gym teacher" and "weird strung-out kid who tried to set people alight between classes with his bic."  I would have complained more about that kid and his creepy habit, but he was my cousin, so . . .

I told young son that I would try to shop these "lyrics" out to some other composer, but probably I'll just burn them in the dead of night.  While I watch the brief flames consume the paper, perhaps I can scare up some sympathy for my weird, fire-starting cousin.

More on Lance

Lance was so kind as to give me permission to use his name in connection with my ruminations regarding ordination and it occurred to me that if I had readers, there might have been a few questions.  Follows the answers:

Yes, his name is Lancelot.
No, I did not leap from ordination to adoubement for this reason.

I would like you to poke around Lance's site a bit; you will find it worth your time, particularly if you're the bookish sort.  Lance is an excellent writer in several genres and enjoys talking, teaching, and writing about writing; has read more than anyone I have personally ever met and enjoys sharing his treasure; has more esoteric information at his command than Alex Trebek; has a quirky and intelligent sense of humor;  loves the Lord and His people; is an incredibly gifted and natural teacher; is transparent about himself, his past, his struggles, and his victories; is unfailingly kind and gracious; really, really loves his wife; is practically perfect in every way.  You may not find all this on your first visit to his site, but I have the incomparable blessing to know him personally (feel free to envy me at will) and I can't think of any stronger way to tell you how impressed I am with him than to point out that aside from my own children* he is the youngest person ever added to my collection.

He's prime, I promise.

*I am counting both The Girl and Rosebud among my children.  Try and stop me.

Lancelot's Ordination

I went to Lancelot's ordination.  In the whole grand scheme it may seem not that earthshaking an event; to Lance, his wife, his family, and we who love him, it was major.

For one of certain sensibilities, being ordained is akin to being knighted.  One makes a decision, undertakes a quest (like acquiring a degree in theology, or taking an internship), purifies oneself or allows oneself to be purified (Eustace Scrubb), submits oneself for consideration and examination, and determines to intentionally set aside one's desires, ambitions, and personal goals, not to abandon them but to subjugate them, to determine to subjugate them again and again, daily, in perpetuity, for the greater good of service to King and Country.  Once prayed over and knighted by the King, or the Kingdom elders, the knight/pastor goes forth on the King's business, declaring and elucidating the King's edicts, slaying dragons, righting wrongs, setting the errant on the straight and narrow, rescuing those in distress, comforting the afflicted, interceding before the King on behalf of the downtrodden, and doing it all at the King's discretion and for His pleasure. The knight's whole purpose, his whole life, is to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before his King.

Only a fool would undertake this lightly.

I do not know intimately the young man under discussion here, but I know his reputation among men of honour and it is sterling; he is no fool.

Personally, I like pageantry, liturgy, and ritual.  I like orchestrating things and injecting meaningful little asides.  I'm a control freak and drive people around the bend!  But sometimes, sometimes, simple is better.

Weddings are about pomp and pageantry, but marriage, at its most elemental and ultimately meaningful, is only a man saying "I will protect you and serve you all my life" and a woman saying "I will follow you and honor you all my life".  That's it.  And that's more important than the flowers, music, rings, bridesmaids, or any other trappings.  A man and a woman before God saying "I will".

So in that spirit, the true spirit of the meaning and soul of the thing, Lancelot's ordination was perfect.  The men who are responsible for him, who have authority over him, kneeling in prayer and dedicating him, his life, his family, his future, to service, whatever that may look like.  That's the real thing.  No pomp required.

In Honour and Gratitude

The Wild Rose

Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart,
Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only a shade,
And once more I am blessed, choosing
again what I once chose before.

 Wendell Berry


Wendell Berry wrote this for his wife, I believe, but it speaks to me of so many of the amazing women in my life who remain faithful friends through what can be long ages of neglect on my part.  One does not have to be a man to appreciate the grace and beauty a woman is, or to forget.

A Serbia Moment

I looked out this morning over a balcony, across an empty street to a squarish, red-roofed apartment building.  There were gouges in the earth that might have been old, healing-over bomb craters.  I caught myself scanning the flawless blue sky for storks; for just a moment I was in Serbia.  My heart is there now, that quickly.  My prayer for Eastern Europe is the same this day as always:

The people, the beautiful lost people of Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, Macedonia, Hungary, Romania.  Lord, they are so precious, such a treasure that seems to slip from Your hand.  They deserve to know You and to speak Your name in praise.  They were created for worship; they will never be what they were meant to be without it.  Please continue fanning the flame that is beginning to burn there.  Bring down strongholds of lies and generational curses.  Bring the nations to Yourself for nourishment and comfort as an infant to its mother's breast.
 
 It is happening you know.  There are many small fires of Truth throughout the area, some only a spark, perhaps one family or even one person, but when these people are alight with the Gospel they burn with white-hot intensity.  The magic is that when you put someone dry, brittle, and dead near someone aflame with Christ, they will catch fire.

There are so many with the same story; abuse, neglect, drugs or drink, hopelessness, despondency, sometimes suicide attempts, desperation.  They have a driving hunger for food that satisfies.  Like that hungering infant, they don't know what the need is or what will fill it, but they recognize it when they taste it and they take it in joyfully.

Then they go to their friends and neighbors with a desire to share that is completely unfathomable to comfortable, prosperous American Christians.  They are starving people who have found bread, and they know they are living among people who are still starving, who still need bread. 

They are like miners lost in caverns.  When they find the light, the way out, they jump and dance and scream to their comrades still wandering in the dark:  "Light!  I've found light!  I've found the way out!  Come this way!  This is the way of rescue!"

I'm not really in Serbia this morning, of course.  The communist-looking squarish apartment building overlooking gouges that on cursory glance could be bomb damage?  That's a condo overlooking the sand traps of a golf course.  I am 5448 miles in space and seven hours in time away from Serbia but my heart is ever there, and I pray my Father allows me to return soon.  Often my thoughts echo the words of Paul to the Romans:

I thank my God through Jesus Christ for you all, since the news of your faith has become known everywhere.   I assure you that you are always in my prayers.  I am constantly asking Him that He will somehow make it possible for me now, at long last, to come to (you).  I am longing to see you.

Masks

The subject of discussion at girls' group last night was removing our masks and being real with one another.  Or that was the plan.  There was little discussion, and any masks being worn were decidedly not removed.

There are six or eight families represented in this group, most in various degrees of fracture.  Honestly, they run the gamut from "strong, well-parented, and healthy" to "I quit".  There are masks aplenty.

 I hope the girls, average age 15, have adults they trust, who give them wise advice or just a compassionate ear and shoulder.   I get barely twenty minutes a week with them so of course they aren't going to confide in me; they don't know me, and don't believe I know them.

I don't know them individually on an intimate level, but I know them better than they imagine.  I have at various times of my life been most of them.  One great advantage of being old is that one has many lives and personalities to look back on and draw from.  I also have the advantage of being friends, or friendly, with many of their parents.  Their mothers, WHO WOULD NEVER BETRAY THEIR CHILDREN'S CONFIDENCES (yes, I am yelling) do turn to other mothers for advice and comfort.  This is what mothers do, beginning with "is this normal" and "what is this rash" and ending -- never.

I did not have much hope that masks would fall during the evening.  Two of the three adults sponsoring this group also have daughters in it.  In this situation there are two possibilities:  either there is already open communication and things are okay in the relationship; or one of the pair, most normally the daughter, is surviving by clutching that mask and hoping to ride it out until freedom arrives in some form or other.

It has never before been so clear to me that sometimes the masks we wear are foisted upon us by other people.  We are pounded and pummeled with expectations and demands and the absolute refusal by the other to believe that we are in any way outside the box they have constructed for us.  This is frustrating at best, and at worst leads to "unexpected, unexplainable" rebellion, and desperate demonstrations of autonomy that may bear tragic lifelong consequences.

I don't know all these girls well, but I know their situations well enough to speculate that some of the ones in the harder places will come through with banners flying, and some of the ones with the best looking "boxes" are in real danger.

Woot!

I have *doubled* my followers.  I now have TWO!!  Now we do the dance of joy!  (Bonus points if you can identify that reference.)

Of Two Minds

I'm watching myself in amazement; it's like watching the Good Twin and the Evil Twin, both happily going about their lives, unconcerned for the other, except they're both me.  It's freaky, I tell ya'.

Okay, some background.  During fall semester 2010 (I think -- awareness of time suffers when you're living two lives) sons 3 and 4 were memorizing the book of Daniel; I decided, as an act of solidarity, to do the Daniel fast.  I initially committed to a month; at the end of the month I could bow out with honour, or continue to the end of the semester.

There were, of  course, more reasons than a coincidental memorization schedule.  I had seen myself as increasingly out of control, living on impulses and whims, and my prayer life was littered with "I want, I want."  I was ready to unseat "I want" from the throne of my life.  I needed to really learn that I was not at the mercy of "I want".  So, the timing was a gift from a Father who was also weary, I imagine, of hearing all about what "I want".  Many would say that such a change requires planning and strategizing, but I made the decision on the fly.  I looked up the food list, decided that I could live with it for a month, and started the next day.  It worked for me because . . . we'll get to that shortly.

My purpose, as stated, was primarily spiritual.  I expected to drop a little weight, because that happens when you treat your body better.  It's kind of like a living organism that way.  But holy smokes!  Seventy pounds?  In a semester.  Yes.  My little world was rocked indeed.

Fast forward to present schizophrenia.  You may know that this past half year has been personally difficult.  That would not be too strong a word, would it, to describe the impact of having lost nearly every friend and extra-family connection one has?  So I slid dived into depression and I have been splashing and bobbing in that cesspool for five or six months.  I was sad, so I ate.  I was angry, so I ate.  I was bored, so I ate ate ate ate ate.  I now have what I call a "toilet paper" figure -- double rolls.

So I was commiserating with the friend I mentioned in the last post, regarding her diet-aggravated health problems.  She has been advised by her doctor to do low-carb to improve her blood pressure and ease the pain of her fibromyalgia.  Being a carbon-based life form I cannot live without carbs.  No, really, I can't.  I don't eat eggs, or much meat.  No, the Daniel fast works for me; I can live happily and lose easily eating fruit and nuts.  You can keep your eggs and . . . lobster?  Really?  For breakfast? Urgh. No, thanks.

So, she would do the low-carb thing for six weeks, and I would do the Daniel, and then we'd meet up and shop for skinny jeans.

She is being faithful and I, frankly, am not.  And here's where it gets strange.  I had a week or so to look forward to the "official start" of this campaign, so I did quite a bit of preemptive eating.  I was simultaneously comforting myself against my anticipated deprivations, and lying to myself with the old sop that I was going to lose it all in a few weeks anyway, and a few more days of wild living could not make much difference.  Ha.

The chosen day dawned, and I started strong.  I had the oatmeal made (steel-cut, cooked overnight, yummy!) and I ate it with gusto.  Oats are revered on the Daniel fast and on my original, spiritually motivated one I had sweetened them with only the sanctioned raisins.  This time I used cranberries.  Dried cranberries sweetened with sugar.  Cranberries are Daniel-friendly; sugar is not.  So there it is.  I had decided to allow myself certain "exceptions", since I was "dieting" and not "fasting".  So, cranberries, coffee, Cheerios.  Did you know that only Target brand cheerio-type cereal has no sugar.  Every other oat-circle box I read listed sugar in some form.  Even Kashi which, let's face it, has less flavor than the box it comes in even with sugar.  Sugar is definitely not Daniel allowed.  Not white, brown, maple, honey, or artificial.  Milk is not allowed on the Daniel, either, but I put it on my slightly sweetened and sweetened-cranberry-studded Cheerios anyway, because I decided to add it to my exceptions list, rather than buying the soy milk I used when I was being good orthodox.

All this was okay.  I was losing weight, albeit slowly.  Then I realized that Lent is only three weeks away.  Hey, one of the Twins thought, I can kick this in gear during Lent.  I can put a spiritual emphasis on it, do it regiment-perfectly, and stop messing about with these cranberries and such.  Well and good.  Except.  I am looking down the barrel of three weeks of preemptive eating.  And I am eating, believe me.  You know those Otis Spunkmeyer muffins?  The ones that list one muffin as two servings, and each serving has about 400 calories?  I ate three of those yesterday while I was working.  Three.  And one on the way home.  And one this morning.

Good Twin turned down honey-roasted nuts at the grocery today because sugar is a Daniel no-no; meanwhile Evil Twin was buying cookies, the worst cookies with all the chemicals and hydrogenated stuff, to dunk in coffee.  While I was contemplating how to blog this interesting turn, things got stranger.  Good Twin was looking up Daniel-friendly recipes and beginner strength training routines; Evil Twin was steadily dunking and snarfing those cookies.  When these two meet, it will be a train wreck.

Girly Interlude

Did something truly girly and far too rare yesterday; I went shopping with a friend.  I had a reward coupon from "the store".  I don't shop new stuff often, being a veteran and gifted thrifter, and this particular friend rarely shops at all, being super-frugal.  So I bribed her by offering to share my 30% coupon, and off we went.  Did we have a riotous, hedonistic, spending bender?  No, but we had fun.  Nice, calm, quiet fun, shopping late in the evening in a nearly deserted store. We rummaged among the 70% and 85% mark-downs, trying on interesting things and praising each other, I in full sincerity - she was gorgeous in everything she modeled for me - and she lying through her teeth.  "No, really, it doesn't matter that it's baggy on top and tight in the middle and hangs around your knees and makes your skin look Nile green, really, it's flattering.  You should totally buy it.  It's cute.  Really."

She is at a point in her life where she vocalizes wanting to try new things, but is still dragging her feet a bit.  She's experiencing personal growth, along with some energy-sapping health challenges.  While the same-old same-old has grown a bit stale, she still finds comfort in the colors and styles that she's worn for years.  It's a conundrum.

Imagine my delight when I found this morning that Sally had written a great post on stepping outside your sartorial comfort zone.  The challenges toward the end of the post will be particularly helpful if you're at all interested in changing things up. My intention is to choose one of these mini-challenges to take on; I'll let you know what-when-how.  Perhaps you'd like to choose one and play along?  Most of her suggestions are gender-neutral, so the fact that my readership is 100% male should not detract. Sally's advice is spot on for my friend; perhaps it will help you as well.

WARNING:  This post is safe for all, but some of Sally's writing is decidedly for grown-ups.  I advise youngsters not be allowed to nose about her blog unattended.  Also, her opinions are her opinions, not necessarily agreeing with mine.

See you on the next page.


Deb

Small Rant, part deux

I wrote the following very long harangue and, upon thoughtful re-reading, decided it needed an introduction.  It seems my thoughts were captured by a very minor thread in an otherwise very good message.  An excellent message.  I think what bothered me was, perhaps, that this thread represented a half-made point.  Obviously when one is given twenty-nine minutes to speak, and has at least two hours of worthy things to say, one must make choices.  Our speaker, in this case, pointed out that an employer's success must not be built at the expense of the employee.  This is good and true.  I wish he had elaborated a bit, however, because I am caught in a quandary.  The following is my considered and, I hope, thoughtful response to the three- or four-word omission; what I wish he had had time and heart to say.

It is morning and I'm feeling writerly, so be warned.

I was left after this sermon feeling poked and picked on.  To give some background, we have a business.  In point of fact it is the hub's business.  My name is not on any of it by my choice, I don't participate in it any more than I can avoid, and none of the fallout, technically, belongs to me.  Therefore when, in the following tirade, I use the words we or our, I do so editorially; it is most normally he or his.  

The thread about evil businesses was relatively minor in the vicar's address, but it seems to be a warp thread in the social gospel generally, so it is the thread I will pull.

He has a business.  Yes, in all it's glorious detail it is a business.  He is one of the evil elite who provides employment for others.  He has equipment, customers (what a higher-class, white-collar guy would call clients), business cards, and an ad in the phone book.  He also has insurance.  Oh boy does he.  He would love to bank, or pay in wages, what he is forced -- has no choice -- to pay for that insurance.  It is liability insurance against breakage and theft by, or injury to, his pitifully underpaid and trodden-upon employees.

Does he pay a living wage?  Frankly, no.  Not to them or himself.  Would he like to?  Oh yes.  Does he provide retirement plans, health insurance, or paid vacations?  No.  He would love to provide health insurance.  He would love his own family to have health insurance.  He cannot pay for health insurance for these people who work for him, but he does frequently lend, or more often give, money for doctor visits, new glasses, or meds.  It is not uncommon for him to be called from a meal or sleep to drive someone to Urgent Care, and sit with them while they wait, then drive them to the pharmacy and pay for their prescriptions.  Or pick up their prescriptions and deliver them.  He regularly drives one man to the veteran's hospital, an hour away, for care.

Meanwhile, no-one in this household sees a doctor until the fever hits 105º, or the bone is protruding from the skin.  Every one of us is in need, dire need, of dental care.  We get new glasses when the old ones are broken beyond repair.  Yet, because he does not pay a living wage, he is empire-building on the backs of the poor.

He employs mainly people who, due to their own bad choices, are no longer allowed to drive.  He drives them to work, grocery, court, and practically anywhere they need or want to go.  He has been known to rush out to help someone attempting to escape from an abusive home.  He has risked physical attack protecting women from brutish men.  He would love to have a fleet of trucks for his business, but he obviously cannot.  So he drives.  A lot.  His gas expense is in the hundreds of dollars per month.  He can't get out from under this because when he finds someone who can drive it is a day of jubilation, usually short-lived because someone who has not so mangled their own situation that they are still capable and legal to drive soon finds "better" employment.  Yes, he is empire building.

He does not provide retirement plans.  His own retirement plan is to work until he dies.  In the interest of honesty, I personally have a 401K through my employment for a major retailer.  It is pretax, which means that when it matures, I will pay it all to the government.  That's okay, as my real retirement plan is also to work until I die.  We are building empires here.

He does not provide paid time off or vacation pay.  Yet how often does the evil employer whisk his spoiled and coddled family "away from it all"?  We have had, over the course of twenty-seven years of family life, exactly no vacations.  Zero.  Again in the interest of honesty, I have had the occasional home-school conference or women's retreat that takes me away for a week-end, several of us have been on rather exotic short-term missions trips, and hubs was taken along as a guest on his parents' fiftieth anniversary trip.  When the kids were small we went on a few three- or four-day camping trips.  Anyone here ever primitive-camped with a month-old infant, and three other kids under ten?  They don't write brochures about that.

So he hires, and of course underpays, the otherwise unemployable.  They have background of addiction, mental illness, and occasionally felony.  Actual conversation:

"She's a convicted felon?  Can you have her in a customer's business unsupervised?"
"She's not a thief.  (long pause) She's an arsonist."
"Arson?  As in fire starting . . . ?"
"Oh she didn't burn a building.  She took her sister's abusive boyfriend's truck, filled it with everything he owned, drove it into the middle of a field, and set it on fire."
"Well, that's perfectly reasonable."
"Uh huh.  Anyway, she's having trouble finding work.  Since she's technically a felon.  She's a good worker."

We have had hundreds of variations of this conversation.  This is where this thread turns and is woven back the other direction.

Justice and mercy demand that employees be treated well, promises be kept, and dignity protected.

Justice and mercy also demand that employers be treated well, promises be kept, and business protected.  It is sadly predictable that one step forward in this business, any bit of progress toward the fruit of living wages, employee benefits, or actual profit, is met with at least one step back in the form of an employee going off the rails and losing hubs a contract or costing him money for restitution.

If one is an employee, trusted by one's employer to do a reasonable amount of work in a responsible manner, himself being entrusted to provide a service which allows unfettered access to a customer's property without their direct supervision, justice and mercy demand the following at minimum:

do not steal money from the place you're working
do not steal office supplies from the place you're working
do not, in a fit of personal rage at someone removed from the work environment, damage the customer's property, i.e. poke holes in the hollow-core doors or drywall with a mop handle
do not allow unauthorized persons into the building, including your children; if you do, don't claim a break-in
do not use or stash drugs on the customer's property
do not come to work impaired, or become impaired while working
do not conduct drug deals in the parking lot of the building or worse, in the building proper
do not use the customer's phone to place 900-number calls
do not use the customer's computers for *any* reason
do not use the customer's cd resurfacing machine to try to resurface cds you find in the trash; if you do, don't do it in front of a security camera
do not make copies of your posterior on the customer's copier; if you do, don't leave a copy in the machine for the customer to find in the morning
do not rummage through the customer's desk
do not eat the customer's food
do not leave the building unlocked
do not call the customer at home if you have a question or problem
do not take home a video-game system or laptop left on or under the customer's desk; he did not intend to throw it away and "finders/keepers" ends in third grade

Yes, all these have actually happened.  Multiple times. 


Let's return to some sort of baseline, before this tangent becomes irremediably mired.  I listened to the sermon again a few minutes ago and it is really very sound and orthodox *except for this one* little omission on the reciprocal responsibilities of employees.  I'm sure I've blown it out of all proportion.  But empresses can do that.

A Small Rant

If you congregate where I do, you will be more interested in this post than otherwise.  The sermon on Sunday, which can be viewed here was doctrinally sound, as usual; the man generally has his theological ducks well lined up.  However (you heard that however coming, didn't you?) this week he seemed to veer in the direction of "social gospel", which gives me the heebies.  This is admittedly a visceral reaction, based on three-plus decades of conservative teaching.  In the interest of making an informed judgement I have started reading some of the writings of Rev. Walter Rauschenbusch (excerpts available here and on Amazon).  Have you read any of his writings or anything else pertaining to social gospel?  I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts.

Deb

Hello, It's Me.

Yes, I'm finally here, taking up your bandwidth and your precious time.  I've wanted a blog forever.  Forever.  Well, for a long time.  What finally pushed me over the edge?  My son.  I logged in to Facebook this afternoon (let us all pay silent homage to the great timesuck that is Facebook) and lo and behold, my son has a blog.  And it's beautiful.  And he did it all by himself.  So when I next see this genius (so like his lovely mother in so many ways) I say, very nonchalantly, "HOLY COW!  YOU HAVE A BLOG!"  His answer?  "Yes, I taught myself HTML last night and wanted to use it.  Would you like a blog?  I could help you."  Bless the child, yes I need another way to annoy people  express my eccentricities  communicate!  So, welcome to my blog.  I hope you enjoy it.  I'm sure it will morph over time, like all organic things do, but for now it will be a place to annoy people, express my irrepressible personality, think through my fingers . . . journal.  See ya' on the next page!

Deb