Double Pensee

    Duty

Snow boots
sturdy and warm
wait for winter patiently
at the back of the hall closet
in the middle of June.

Good wife
sturdy and true
busy in trivial works
in the kingdom of hearth and home
wonders if it's been enough.

God Thoughts

There was a time when I knew what I knew, was sure of it, confident, happy, smug. Then, a puny piddling gnat sized nudge set me slightly off balance. I remember walking up the road with my oldest and talking about this spiritual vertigo. I couldn't even put it into sensible words. It was just a discontent, a feeling of something not quite right, bigger still, what if we have it all wrong? That must have been fifteen years ago, maybe longer and I tried to shrug it off and went on with church and life, but it never quite worked. Then, I began to hear about "emergent." I found a book by Dan Kimball and began to realize I wasn't alone in my discontent. Now years later, I still haven't come to a definite conclusion and I have changed in ways I'm not completely comfortable with. 

I question so many things and truth be told even question if God is real sometimes - all too often actually. I find myself begging Him, "please be real. I want you, Heaven, Jesus, Truth - I want it all to be real." So, I live in the limbo world of C. S. Lewis' words, When I don't believe (his word was love), I will act as though I believe. I pray God, let that be enough. Bring me out of this no man's land into green pastures of comfort and peace.                    
                           

Sorrow

Andrew Bonar, a minister of the Free Church of Scotland 1810-1892

"...how little impression our sorrow makes upon other men has often struck me, so that it is our Father's discipline for us personally; instead of thinking this sad, let me rather be pleased and glad that my Father takes this special, peculiar interest in me by myself."                                          

Bonar says that our sorrow makes little impression upon other men. That is true. We sympathize, try to empathize when someone we care about is hurting, but there is that niggling fear that makes us wants to run from the afflicted so we don't have to be reminded - next time might be my turn. So we console, take food, mouth platitudes and go home to our families, jobs, concerns... life goes on for us. 

         

Life is about loss; we can't escape it and sorrow, according to Bonar, is God's special gift. It doesn't feel much like a gift though. It hurts. I'd gladly refuse if I could. But, of course, one can't refuse. There is no choice in the matter at all. The lessons of sorrow, however, we do control. I can choose to ignore the pain, numb the pain, narcissisticly revel in the pain or work through the emotions of sorrow and grow. One thing I have learned is that sorrow is a private, internal process that others can't help with, only be patient with.

The part of his statement I question is, and I question this in many parts of my spiritual life, "Does God take this special, peculiar interest in me by myself." I don't mean to imply that God doesn't care but rather how hands-on is He? He doesn't personally need to make each dawn and dusk appear. He doesn't hand deliver each soul into a newly form embryo. He doesn't hold every tree, rock and thing literally in the grip of His hand. Does He then orchestrate each movement of my life?

I don't think He does, but that doesn't mean He isn't there to help and comfort me through each hurt. It doesn't mean that He doesn't have a way through it to make me a stronger person. Some people are comforted to think God "dots each i and crosses each t". Somehow, I am not. I like to think that he appreciates and is proud, just like a parent, that I am maturing and capable, though desiring His advice and help, not completely independent of Him. After all, I'm still His child and He, like a parent may, occasionally, need to intervene for my benefit. I am okay with that. 

I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out what I believe. Why does it have to be such a muddle to me?

   

Memories of Luther Herman Tilley

When I was almost six my father was killed in a car accident. My mother, sister, brother and I left Oklahoma (Fort Sill) and went back to Stuart, Va.to live with with her parents. Shortly after that we moved to Shouns, Tn.were Grandpa built us a cozy four-room cinderblock house (Later he added another bedroom). We lived with them for eight years in that small community. I had a wonderful childhood and treasure every minute God gave me with my grandparents. I wrote this to honor and remember grandpa.

Blind in one eye, broken nose, hearing mostly destroyed by the deafening roar of machinery at the plant, constant ringing in your ears, broken ribs, shattered ankle held together by metal pins, crushed pelvis, several fingers sacrificed to a sharp-toothed saw blade: how many different times did the doctors say “he’ll never make it” and gave you up for dead? Yet you defeated death at his game. Again and again, he tucked his tail and slunk away head bowed – temporarily. No man wins forever.

You were a raging bulldog of a man in your youth; a red-headed Irishman carousing, drinking, fighting, living every moment as though it were your last and often nearly was. The worry and sorrow you caused your father, mother, wife and children was a terrible result of your wild oats. Oh, the terrible old man you could have become. I’m glad he was never born.

For, I remember a gentle man; the bulldog tamed.  Flaming hair turned sandy, eyes crinkled in smiles and a toothless grin that made me think Leprechaun’s blood ran in your veins. I picture you with that old cap, ear flaps dangling, a heavy plaid coat and work gloves as you shoveled coal into the bucket in the shed. You fed the stove precisely, without mess, then sat in your chair and read (from cover to cover numerous times over the years) your dearly loved Bible.

I remember the day you piped the water to the front yard from Aunt Elsie’s well. We carried it into the house in buckets – cold and refreshing; we’d gulp big icy mouthfuls and then hang the ladle on the nail. Every morning you’d wash your face in a metal pan with water warmed on the stove.  Occasionally, I watched in fascination as you poured hot water into the cup and swished the brush around to make a soapy lather, then slathered it on your face and shaved.  You dried your smooth chin and slapped on some Aqua Velva; a scent I love to this day.

We watched your favorite TV shows on a small screened, black and white set with rabbit ears on top. Matt Dillon, Festus, Miss Kitty and Doc. Ben, Hoss, Little Joe, Adam and Hop Sing. They were part of our family. The good guys and the bad guys but Good always triumphed over Evil. We watched them everyday when I got home from school. Good times. I just didn’t realize it then.

You had a pocket knife. I was always amazed at the tool it was. You cut up an apple, stabbed it and ate from the point. You dipped it into a jar of Vick’s, coated it with a thick smear of the clear ointment and put it on the back of your tongue where it melted and trickled down your throat. It soothed your tickle-ly cough you said. It repaired electric wires, was a screw driver, and picked out splinters from tiny fingers. You were ahead of your time with your handy, dandy “cut and dice and slice”; crafty and clever you were with that knife.

You weren't very affectionate. I don’t ever remember crawling up on your lap and being comforted or rocked to sleep. I never heard you say, “I love you” to me or any one of us living in that cozy, four room, block house you built. But, I knew you cared every time you’d ruffle my hair or give me an impish grin. It couldn't have been easy to take in a widowed daughter and her three children at your age of life. But, if you were resentful I never saw or felt it. As a matter of fact, I think you were rather glad to have us.

I've heard the stories of your life and marvel at your resilience and strength. You had staggering hardships and hurts, some your own doing, others just horrible things life has a way of throwing at us. I know losing your children was life changing for you. We usually talked about how it affected Grandma without considering a man’s emotions. All the guilt, sadness, anger, grief, longing for them that you held close to the core of your heart, never sharing or allowing anyone to help you carry that burden, at least as far as I ever knew, must have been a constant hidden heaviness. Mom said that once, when you were at the nursing home you said the children had been to see you. Maybe God did send them to you for a little while knowing that you’d soon join them.

I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without your calm influence and steady love and care. You gave me a sense of security, a home, family, roots. Your love for God, which came late in life but changed you completely, was always a testimony of faithfulness, His and yours. Your constant reading of your Bible showed me just how much you treasured God’s words, not just because you read them, but because you lived them. You were a simple, quiet, contented, peace loving man by the time I was a part of your life. I am so proud that part of me is you. I love you, Grandpa – I miss you.  

You Didn't Write That - Flash Fiction

Write a flash fiction with "You didn't write that" under 150 words.

9/22/12           

“Maynard, come here.”  "What now," he mumbled walking to the front. Mrs. Snavely held a folder out, “Recognize this?” 

“Sure, it’s my book report,” Maynard answered. She looked at him over the top of her glasses, “Maynard, you didn't write that.” His face red, nostrils flared, he retorted, “Yes, I did write that. That’s my handwriting.” The teacher sighed, “I have no doubt it is your handwriting. I recognize the sloppy penmanship. When I say ‘You didn't write that’ it refers to the content not the actual scribbling of letters.”

Maynard placed his hand on his heart. “Mrs. Snavely, you wound me. I read the book. I liked the book. This book spoke to me.  Is the report not good enough?” Mrs. Snavely conceded, “Yes, Maynard, an excellent report, good insights.” Maynard asked, “What? I’m too stupid to write that?”

“No, Maynard, not stupid, you are capable of writing a paper like this.” Maynard relaxed and smiled, “Then why do you think I didn't?”

Turning to the last page she said, “Maynard, you are not stupid, but you are careless. I know you didn't write that because you copied the real author’s name at the end!”        
                                                                 

Senior Pictures

9/20   

What is up with senior pictures? This seems to be THE trend right now.  My daughter is a photographer and she has limited her work to senior pictures. She has four young children which means she has restrictions on her schedule but there is still enough call for work in that genre that she can stay as busy as she chooses. I don't have anything against this trend but just find it... odd? Conceited? Amusing? Off centered? ... I don't know quite what to think of it.

First of all it is not inexpensive. The sitting fees and then the packages can get very costly. But, it is HIGH SCHOOL for heaven's sake. I remember my son thought life ended after high school. After 18 all meaning and coolness drains from your being. I tried to tell him that high school is a small blip on the radar, that some day he would shake his head with disbelief to know what weight he had placed on those four, shallow, angst driven years. If high school IS the highlight of your life then you've had a pathetic, empty life. So, why do parents encourage these pictures and happily shell out the big bucks for this particular moment in a child's life? I don't see this happening after college graduation - of course after college loans who can afford it?

I'm not against this trend. I just find it strange to some degree. It seems like just one more "Look At Me" in a society that loves to be the center of attention. It lacks substance, meaning, and depth. But, that's just how it struck me this morning after seeing more pictures posted. This too shall pass - wonder what's next?

The Little Girl Inside

9/18

I just downloaded on my Kindle (not a Fire... yet) and am reading  Gilligan's Dreams: The Other Side of the Island by Dreama Denver. So far I really like it and will review it when I finish. Dreama mentioned that once Bob asked her if she ever thought about herself when she was a little girl. She hadn't really and he told her to think about it, think about the girl she was: her likes, dislikes, the things that made her happy, made her sad and to tell that little girl she loved her. She asked him if he had done that, thought about the little boy that was himself. He had he said and still did on occasion.

Now maybe that sounds "ooey gooey, get in touch with yourself mumbo-gumbo" but I think maybe everyone ought to do that sometime. I hardly recognize the little girl I look back on. She is so undeveloped and sketchy, hardly a person at all. Love her? This is something I am going to have to deliberate on and maybe start writing to myself about. I'd like to know myself better so maybe I need to start with the person that started me on this journey, little Debbie Wilson. Hmmmm, we'll see where that takes me.