Happenstance

I don't believe in luck. "Fate" is just a name for a false god/dess in my book. I don't subscribe to the idea that anything can occur without God's consent. His all-knowingness is so much greater than we can even pretend to begin to imagine. I seriously wonder if that's why some people don't believe in God...because their idea of Him is so small that it can't really make sense.

For instance, many people think that the Bible is just a book written by men. All I can say is that I have been reading it for 15 years and am just now beginning to get a hint of a clue of some of what it's telling me about God. Or rather, what He's telling me about Himself. Although it does seem to say the same things over and over, but you know, I'm thick.

And I know how hard it is to believe some of the things that happened in there. Like Samson killing 1,000 men with the jawbone of a donkey. Or Jonah being in the belly of a whale or fish for three days and then coming out alive (resurrected?). Or the virgin birth...You get the idea. There are many inexplicable things recorded there, by our standards. We don't normally encounter the supernatural, which is why it is called that.

But if, for just a moment, you can concede that there is a God who created everything (and I don't know how else all this could have come to be--I mean if you really seriously think about it), then, really, is there anything He can't do?? In His own words: "Is anything too hard for the LORD?"--Genesis 18:14 (in telling Abraham that 90-year-old Sarah would bear a son) or, "Is the LORD's arm too short?"--Numbers 11:23 (in telling Moses that he would provide meat for Israel in the desert--this is after having rescued them from Egypt!)

Furthermore, it is very kind of Him to give us a sense of normalcy, of the "natural," so that we can cope with our surroundings. And so that we can recognize when something or some One is outside of, or rather, beyond what feels usual to us. Truthfully, what feels usual to us is actually quite extraordinary after all, isn't it?

Secret Me

I love the sound of a screen door slapping shut. I'll even take the hissssss-ca-chunk of a pneumatic screen door closer. Naturally, it is indicative of summer, but it's also more than that. It reminds me of my grandparents, Hank & Marna. I can remember from when I was very little a wooden screen door in their kitchen...did it have peely green paint...? Hank would be sitting at the table drinking iced tea, whistling "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" through his teeth. I would eat cold hotdogs right out of the fridge. The sound of a screen door brings back--for a moment--that happy secure feeling I had before life got so tough.

Have you ever heard a saying like, "I'm just a skinny person trapped inside a fat body" or about people who are "happy on the outside, crying on the inside"? "Tears of a Clown"--love that song. Here's a little secret: I am crabby on the outside but so incredibly happy deep down inside.

I am really shy. I wasn't always this way; I think I had it beaten into me by my peers. I do not interact well in social situations. I kind of panic and lose all oxygen to my brain. Sometimes I start blathering like a fool. Mostly I try to avoid people, although as a Christian, I know this is hardly an acceptable option.

Recently I ran across some old Pat Metheny cassette tapes and played them. My kids were going wild watching me dance around the room like they've maybe never seen me do, that they'd remember. Grouchy old mom was overtaken as joyful inner mom erupted from the depths of my soul--music can definitely do that. Music is very powerful and should be handled with care.

My painting has been criticized for "having no shadows" and for over-saturation of the colors. Partly it's immaturity, but partly, it's because there is so much happy colorfulness trapped inside me that it just comes squirting out like that. You'd never guess this if you saw me standing in line at the grocery store, scowling. I don't know what happens to me, why I get depressed and angry and impatient and upset. But when the secret me comes out, it's maybe just a little too crazy and out of control.

Anyhoo, I'll just keep trying to remember John 15:5 and leave it at that.

"O death, where is thy sting?"

The title quote comes from I Corinthians 15:55a.

I've been finding lots of money in the laundry lately. Problem is, it's been play money. That's another difference between having big boys and little boys. My big boys are coming home for a visit soon. They have both been on the other side of the globe for about a year now; one at war in Afghanistan, one trying to make a career as an artist in Hawaii. I know, they've always been like a see-saw. Growing up they were best friends, a perfect balance.

I can remember once when they were little, maybe six and seven years old, they went with our neighbor on her paper route. It was just an ad paper we used to get, "The Bonny Buyer," and she delivered it in the afternoon. Somehow it had gotten late while they were still out--you know when it is getting dusk and things get gradually harder and harder to see. I was anxious, as my boys were really too little to be so far out of sight for so long. As I looked down the familiar corridor of our street, formed by sidewalk and tree lines, the darkness finally swallowed it all up--including my kids. That was a terrible, helpless feeling.

I have been watching a lot of programs about death. I recently saw "Troy" (again), and "The Time Traveler's Wife." I've also been hooked into two very violent and inappropriate series: "24" and "Battlestar Galactica." At this point I'm pretty desensitized. But death is an issue that pervades all this stuff I've been seeing, not to mention real life, where just about everyone I know is or has a loved one who is dying of cancer.

In "Troy" and "The Time Traveler's Wife" the protagonist (in both cases played by Eric Bana) is killed in the prime of life, leaving behind a wife and young child. Tragic. And yet, if these men had lived, eventually they would have died somehow. Why do we sometimes pretend that people don't die? Everybody dies. It doesn't always seem that way, I think, because so many people "live on" in pictures and movies. It's not like they are really gone when you see them all the time.

I think about my faith a lot. I think, "Why would anyone listen to me about my faith and hope in God. Who am I? Kind of a big loser in a way. I don't even obey the God I claim to serve. I fail all the time. I act like an idiot." But then I remember, "Oh yeah, it's not about me--it's about HIM." Who? Jesus Christ. He is the only one who can save us from this predicament. We are all going to face death one day. And all those imaginary people in those movies and TV series are being flung headlong into eternity without even a mention of God. I mean the real God. The maker of heaven and earth.

But what about real people, people that I know, that I meet, that I see? They need to know the truth. Not what we make up. Not what sounds reasonable to us. Not what is popular. Jesus said,"I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."--John 14:6. These words disturbed me when I first read them. I tried to manipulate them into something more palatable; but it didn't work. I realized that I had to make a choice: it was black and white. It was either Jesus is who he claims to be, or he isn't.

And so, fortunately for me, when I tried to imagine the world without Him--it was so bleak, so hopeless, that I couldn't even hold the thought for a moment. I decided to believe. It was the easier, the better, the only choice.



Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,

In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.

For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.

But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

--I Cor. 15:51-57

Thursday

It's Thursday. I like Thursday. Definitely a good, hopeful day. And it's beautiful outside. Cold, but looks lovely through the windows, all springy. So, it's either write my blog or scrub the tubs. Hard choice, I know.

My wonderful husband, Ronald, is a gardener. He is also 100% Dutch, hence tulips. I love to look out my kitchen window and see the tulips. I have been poking my nose into the different kinds and there is a pink and white variety that smells just like conversation hearts! Probably the nicest thing my husband ever said to me was that he planted all these flower gardens for me. I can live on that forever, just about.

I remember once when I was a kid walking home from school with a couple other little girls. One was named Gobi. I don't remember who else but that was a name I never forgot. I still think of her whenever I see anything about a desert. Anyway, as we were walking we saw some tulips growing along the alley in someone's back yard. The girls began picking them to take to their moms. I didn't pick any. Don't recall why, like if I thought it would be wrong or anything.

To our surprise, a lady came storming out of the house straight at us. She was absolutely furious about having her tulips picked and she definitely let us know. She was explaining, angrily, about how she had planted bulbs and how they only came up once a year, blah blah blah--I didn't understand what she was talking about. I think I was in first or second grade. Then, she marched us up to her house and made us all call our mothers. I really thought she was crazy. My mom wasn't home. But I told her about it when I got there, and she didn't seem to care. I hadn't picked any tulips anyway.

I don't know why I always remember that incident. The tulip lady was an enigma to me. My parents were always so laid back about things. I mean things like material objects. I never remember getting yelled at for breaking anything, or walking in the house with dirty shoes (and we wore our shoes in the house). We had a dog who chewed things up, barfed on things...and I'm sure as kids we must have caused plenty of damage. Like the time I talked my brother into taking a bath in his toybox and the water came pouring down through the ceiling. But I don't think I even got in trouble for that. My parents just didn't seem to care about "stuff" so much.

I mean that in a good way. A very good way. I don't know how I got to be so opposite. I am constantly fretting about my furniture getting wrecked, or the kids tracking in mud. And I do not even consider getting a pet because of the sure damage that would be incurred. Where did I get this attitude towards "stuff" that really isn't important? I mean, yeah, it costs money to replace things, and I guess that's the root of the problem--that old 'love of money' thing.

But I mean, we were taught as kids not to put our feet up on furniture, or to run around in the house, or to touch things that weren't ours. We were taught to behave. We were taught to respect other peoples' property, which was probably why I didn't pick the tulips. My parents did give us good guidelines, which I am very thankful for. I try to teach my kids these same things, and am well pleased when other people teach them to their kids (especially when they're in my house).

So, now I guess I'm the crazy tulip lady, only not so much anymore. I am improving (thanks to God). I am starting to see how much I love these kids in our neighborhood, even when they tromp through the flowers, or break our stuff. Don't get me wrong--I will still definitely say something to them when they're stepping out of line. I try to get them to respect others' (our) property, and I try to explain it in a not-so-crazy way. But you know people are all different. And it's those little things that you sometimes remember forever. Like, "Hey!! These are MY flowers!!!" or, "I planted all these flowers just for you."

Birdsong

I went to the doctor today. It was a great relief to get that out of the way and finally get blood drawn, something put off a long time. Anyway, he seemed pleased with the fact that I've kept my weight down (I'm gathering that's a feat at this age) and I'm thinking, "brother, with the diet I've been on the last four months I should have lost a bunch of weight!" (even though that's not why I'm on it).

I am in a really weird mood. Like kind of mellow but kind of I just don't care. There are so many thoughts streaming through my brain, but they are not cool thoughts. And they don't just cycle around up there either. They kind of fly out into the atmosphere and eventually make their way back into my mind sort of like ghost thoughts. I can't quite put my finger on any of them. Spring is like a drug for me. A good drug. I think.

Cardinals are nesting in my front bushes. We were gone just for a long weekend in Michigan and in that time the female made her choice. I thought our arrival would have spoiled the deal, but they've stayed, in spite of the fact that they're right by the front door next to the walkway. They sing constantly. Cardinals love to sing. Tonight I heard one making a new sound--sort of a trill at the end of a more typical lyric. It was very exciting. I love to watch birds, but am pretty lazy about it. So I watch grackles and starlings and bluejays and cardinals and sparrows and chickadees and juncos and finches and woodpeckers. Once in a while a hummingbird or a hawk, or even an owl.

The other morning a flicker appeared in our back yard. I was very happy I could actually identify it using my little Golden field guide. Then, a couple of nights ago my husband and I went out on a long awaited date. After eating a nice dinner we wandered through a Chinese grocery store and then stopped by a discount book store. They had wall calendars for $1.00--I had been looking for a $1.00 wall calendar for up north. And they had one with birds on it! I like to have lovely wall calendars with birds or flowers or scenery...so when I got home I was disappointed because it was actually a "birder's" calendar not a bird calendar. The pictures were not scenic, but more along the identification line.

But then, in a spare moment, I decided to flip through the months of illustrations just to see if there was anything interesting, which I doubted. To my surprise and delight, the picture in August was exactly a bird we had seen perhaps two years ago and had never been able to identify--a Green Heron! It was such a strange and awkward looking bird. I recognized it immediately, and there are exactly eight drawings of it on this calendar page, all in different poses, so there can be no mistake. So, that was pretty neat.

So I guess the moral of the story is, "Don't look your $1.00 birder's wall calendar in the mouth."

Pickle

Spring is finally here and my boys are having a blast tearing around the field behind our house with all the neighborhood kids. It is quite a colorful assortment; we've got blondes, brunettes, a redhead, curly hair, straight hair, boys, girls, big, small, medium, you name it. Every afternoon the minute school lets out it begins. I hear the thumping of the basketball on the court next door. None of these kids actually live there--my neighbors put a paved basketball court in their backyard and now their kids are grown. It's not fenced in so the whole neighborhood traipses in and out, playing pick-up games.

They also play baseball, soccer, football, tag, hide-and-seek, guns, just everything. They play on our swingset and in our sandbox. They run around and scream and laugh and fight. Sometimes they all get quiet, usually in the sandbox. Today one boy needed a bandaid. "Eric's bleeding!" a little girl exclaimed. I went out there to check on the situation, applied a bandage to the tiniest microscopic dot on his little finger...which was a good thing.

As a mom, I don't know how you ever stop wanting more kids. Like, even when it's completely insane. I know firsthand how hard it is to have a baby at 40, and then one at 44. I also know how difficult and frustrating it is to foster. And yet, when I see them, each one, their little faces...I think, "awwwww," and it's just like that crazy moment one time in college when I took home a puppy. Well, no, it's not really exactly like that. For one thing, you can give away a puppy.

But you know how it is getting older (if you are there yet). You don't actually feel older, which is why it's always such a shock to look in the mirror. I mean, you can't see as well, you don't remember things, and you move slower. I used to run everywhere, literally. Like, when I'd get out of the car at the grocery store, I would sprint across the parking lot to the door. I'd do the same thing going to the mailbox. Pretty much I just zipped everywhere. I thought to myself, "I don't see many other grown-up women doing this...this must be immature, this running thing." But I liked to do it anyway, and it saved time. But I wondered, "Will I ever slow down? Will it ever be that I just don't have the energy to go flying around like this anymore?" And of course I can tell you the answer to that now. Yes.

But I am still the same person I always was--the little girl who told her dad confidently that one day she would have sixteen kids of her own. It was so weird when things actually didn't turn out that way. First of all, I delivered my first baby by Cesarean (he was breech) which then set the precedent and I had to have all Cesareans. That limits the number of children you can have. I hadn't thought of that.

And then we were broke. Being young I didn't understand that no matter how many kids we had we would have made do. I get that now but I didn't then. And when we tried to adopt, it wasn't that easy. Fostering was maybe one of the hardest things we ever did. I'll tell you why it was/is so hard (even though we don't foster anymore). Because I chickened out. I mean, it all started out so great, but then as time went on and we had to really make a long-term commitment, I became like Peter on the water with Christ, I looked away from Him and cried, "I can't do this!!!"

Regret is perilously easy. The reality of the day-to-day raising of kids is sobering, to say the least. And some days I just don't really feel like being so serious. But then this silly little kid says something so hilarious like asking, "Mom, does Optimus Prime shoot bombs out of his ears?" and I know I'm in the right business.

The Heavens are Telling

My parents are both musicians. Not professional, but really good. My mother plays the violin; my dad the piano. My Uncle Chris played piano, bass violin, and composed. My grandma Lou played piano, and my mother tells me there were several other musicians in her mother's family. My brother Robert is a gifted guitarist. I was born for two things: God and music.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to pursue my interest in music as much as I would have liked over the course of my life. There were circumstances that got in the way. I think I could have been a decent piano player with the right training, but that was not meant to be. I really don't know what difference it would have made. I do still love to play the piano, but I stink. No kidding, I really do. I need a good teacher and lots of practice, neither of which are happening any time soon.

A wonderful thing happened to me when I was a new Christian. The church we were attending had a choir; a really good choir, with an excellent choir director. I had never sung but always secretly wanted to. I don't have a good singing voice but can read music and hit most of the notes. I remember when I was a kid many times begging my cousin Lindy to sing that old Beatles tune, "If I Fell" with me so we could do parts. I loved singing with her. It was the only opportunity I ever had to do such a thing-- It never occurred to me in highschool to join the choir, and we didn't go to church.

Anyway, as a new believer, at age 33 (or so)--like a really special birthday present from God I was able to join the church choir! There were no try-outs or anything. And I got to take home my music, and wear a choir robe, and go to practices on Wednesday nights. It was a really worshipful time. Practicing and singing on Sunday morning. Although sometimes I was just so excited to be there I think I was more focused on myself than God. But, all in all it was a very good experience. I will never forget it. I am so grateful to God that I had that opportunity. And when he was old enough, my eldest son sang in choir with me.

I learned so many wonderful old hymns and songs and got to sing some I had known or had heard on the radio and loved. Our director chose some really great music--and not so easy either! We'd do parts of Handel's "Messiah" and other difficult stuff like that. We did a fair amount of classical and traditional music, which is my favorite. We did some newer music that I liked, some that I didn't...

When we were doing something I absolutely loved like "The Heavens Are Telling" from Haydn's Creation, the tears would just stream down my face as we sang. It was so incredibly joyful. I thought to myself, "I am glad I was never able to sing before. My singing has been saved for this moment, for it to be really meaningful." I could never enjoy to such heights any other music as much as those beautiful songs singing praise to God. I mean, that is what music (and everything else) is made for--to glorify Him. And so it was one of my little tastes of Heaven on earth.