Sometimes it feels better, more comfortable, to avoid the looming mission that we have been given: to be Christ's ambassadors to the world and to do the work of God.
Simon Peter said to them, "I'm getting out of here. I'm going fishing." (John 21:3). This, on the heels of seeing Jesus in the upper room after the crucifixion. As the confused and saddened disciples wept and tried to plan what to do next, Jesus appeared to them. Thomas, the doubting one, demanded that Jesus prove his identity. He touched the scars on Jesus' hands, feet, and side. Jesus had indeed risen. What He had said was true--He was the perfect sacrifice and was now alive once again. So it would be a spiritual kingdom, after all. Jesus life was all about atonement and reconciliation to God, not overthrowing the Romans. Now He would soon ascend back into heaven and leave the disciples for good.
It must have been too much for Peter to take in. He had gone from denying Christ, to weeping his heart out, to the shocking revelation of Christ in the flesh. Overwhelmed, he fell back to the thing that gave him the most comfort and that was a sure thing, before Jesus had turned his world upside down. A fisherman, he climbed into a boat with other disciples and put out into the sea.
Scrambling about on a fishing boat over undulating waves, was soothing in its predictability and familiarity. Put out the nets, wait until they fill with fish and pull it into the boat. After months of trying to figure out how he was to follow Christ, how he was to conduct himself and what all Christ's stories and instruction meant, I imagine that it was wonderful to go back to the sea. He was a master at his work here. There were no questions about how to respond to crowds, no anxiety about what to do with the conniving Pharisees and endless people who tried to trick Jesus. He would go back and pretend that the previous three years hadn't even happened.
His lack of education made no difference now, as he rode out the waves and felt the spray on his body. He was free from the city life he had never quite gotten used to. It had been hard to move from place to place. His father had fished on these waters, and so had he. This was home to him, not all those far flung cities he had visited with Jesus.
Yes, he adored Jesus and had never felt so good ever, anywhere, as he had when he was walking along the dusty roads next to this Man who had befriended him. But right now, it all felt like just too much. Like all of us who are overwhelmed, he went home--to the sea.
Suddenly, there was Jesus, calling out to the disciples from shore. "Have you caught anything?" No. "Try on the other side of the boat." What? Through the fog they couldn't see who had made this suggestion that seemed to trivialize their efforts. There was nothing to show for being cold and wet all night long. Had they lost their skills? What were they missing? Why, when other fishermen were making large hauls, had they caught nothing? Why not? Minutes later, as his companions hauled in the enormous catch, Peter flung himself into the lake and swam to shore. It was Jesus, who had built a fire and was waiting to cook them breakfast.
"Do you love me, Peter?" Yes Jesus. You saw how fast I got to you when I realized you were here. Nothing could keep me from you, not even our fish. The fish that will pay for our home and families' needs. I would have been happy to lose it all in the water, just to get to you.
"Then feed my lambs." My lambs are the ones who know of me and are left without a Shepherd, now that I am going back to my Father.
Oh. That. Plunge back into an itinerant lifestyle, rubbing shoulders with the arrogant Jewish leaders, who will probably be out for my neck. I could probably do it for awhile.
Jesus sat back, watching His beloved friends eating breakfast, wishing that He could somehow impress on them how much He loved them. Only His eyes could say it.
Peter saw Jesus looking deeply into him.
"Do you love me, Peter?"
Oh no. He thinks that I don't love Him because I disassociated myself when it got hot back there in Pilate's hall. He turned and looked straight at me and saw into my heart. He knows how scared I was. How could I have ever abandoned this, my Friend? And he remembered the agony spilt in his tears when he had rushed from Pilate's hall into the embracing darkness.
Jesus was still looking at him with those warm, knowing eyes.
"Oh yes, I do love You."
"Feed my sheep."
Those eyes. That face. We've been through so much together. He still loves me. So much that I can't say no to Him. If I could just remember this moment, I could probably do anything, even if it means going back to the crowded city life that I'm weary of.
Jesus motioned for Peter to follow. They began walking down the beach, in the moist strip where the water met the sand. Just the two of them, slowly walking close together, feeling that this was perhaps the last time.
"Peter." They stopped next to Peter's fishing boat, where the net, bulging with fish, spilled out onto the sand. Jesus stood, looking at him again: deeply, warmly, earnestly. Jesus stooped and picked up a wet fish, its gaping eyes and mouth in an expression of perpetual surprise. "Do you love me more than these? Do you love me more than the comfort of the familiar? Do you love me enough to leave the predictability and tangible gains of your livelihood? Do you love me more than these fish, these fishermen, these lakes?"
But this is where I'm the happiest. This is where I am the most genuine--the most authentic self that I can be. This comes to me the easiest--it's what my father and his father, and his father have done all their lives. It's my life. I like doing this. It's who I am. Leave this?
Peter was grieved at this line of questioning. He has always loved Jesus, even though he didn't feel cut out for a life of stringent discipleship. And yet, here was Jesus, calling him back into that unpredictable life of service, sacrifice, leadership, and eventually, martyrdom. There is just no way I can live as though Jesus didn't walk into my life. He called me once and He's calling me again. He must feel that I can do this.
"Peter, do you love me more than these?"
Peter looked at Jesus boldly then, and for a long time. If I can just remember His face as it is right now.
"You know everything. My heart: my wants, my acts, my weaknesses and fears. You know it all. You know that I love you."
"Feed my sheep. When you were young, you dressed yourself and walked wherever you wanted. But when you are gold, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will carry you where you don't want to go." (John 21:18).
That face. Those eyes. He loved me then and He loves me still. I can do anything if His face is always before me. Peter would not say no to the One whose love warmed and comforted his soul. He would go back to the city.
Jesus, smiling, said, "Follow me again, Peter."
And Peter did. All the way to a cross of his own.
January 23, 2006
January 21, 2006
Temptation #3
When Jesus said, "Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation," He had already watched them succumb to this particular temptation. In the upper room where the final supper was to take place, the disciples were fresh from bickering about who would be the greatest in the new kingdom. They were so focused on their ambitions that they failed to notice the practical things needed to be accomplished at that moment. There was no servant to wash the dust off their feet and prepare them for their meal. They could have been so preoccupied with their interpersonal controversies that they didn't realize something was missing and necessary. Or, they could have all noticed that there was no servant but felt that it was the sign of the most undeserving of advancement to stoop and do the thing that held up the meal. I wish I could know which it was--Jesus knew and He noticed.
During His life, Jesus seemed to move from one task to the next without a lot of discussion about who should do what. The need was present, so He did it: healing the sick, changing water to wine, teaching in the temple. The work ethic He learned working with Joseph in the carpenter shop, served Him well in His work with people and spiritual matters. "Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might." (Ecclesiastes 9:10).
For many years I worked in a teaching hospital. As the new interns came onto the floor in September, the staff used to have conversations about who was "good" and who was not. Some strode about with lordly bearing, uttering great scientific truths about various disease manifestations. There were always nurses who enjoyed debating with them, and equally as many for whom these clear pronouncements seemed to provide a crisp counterpoint for their romantic ambitions.
Other interns were particularly personable and friendly with the nursing staff. They spent adequate time with their patients, but the majority of their time on the units was spent conversing with the nurses. There was often a fair amount of joking and storytelling, many times with risqué comments and sexual innuendo. These relationships helped with staff morale, actually.
Occasionally, interns and residents came through our unit who didn't divide up patient care into your work and our work categories. If a patient told them they were uncomfortable, they didn't call for the nurse. They helped them get comfortable by turning or repositioning the patient themselves. Everything about the patient's wellbeing was important to them--not that they performed every patient care, but the patient's concerns about their family were just as important as deciding medication dosage or starting a vassopressor infusion.
Our chief of staff used to routinely walk through the unit on rounds, picking up little bits of paper and threads on the carpet as he went, never scolding anyone that they were there, but just as part of his duties. As one might guess, he was a meticulous surgeon who noticed cleanliness and order wherever he went. Another physician was concerned about the job satisfaction of the housekeepers and always had a kind word with them on her way through.
The director of the ICU once found himself in a room in which a medical "train wreck" was occurring. Opened cartons of medical instruments and monitoring devices were strewn across the empty bed and floor of the room. Chest tube containers, contaminated gloves and blood-soaked gauze was everywhere. There had been a mad scramble to save this patient's life. After being sure that the medical aspects of the patient's care were addressed, he spoke with each of the nurses to help them debrief. Then he gathered up the trash from all over the room and took it down to the trash chute. Not only did this act give the nurses time and focus they needed, it relieved them of work that would prevent them from keeping up with the rapidly changing status of the dying individual. As the director was leaving the disposal area after dropping off the trash, someone stopped him in the hall to ask where they might find the patient's surgeon. The director gave that information and then the patient's family member asked who he was, since they had seen him back in their loved one's room, working alongside the nurses and residents. He sweetly said, "Today I'm doing lots of things. Right now, I'm the housekeeper."
There are so many things I'd like to accomplish before I die--so many issues to which I'd like to add my voice, programs to design and direct, people to lead, lives to be touched. My hope is that while I am pushing toward my goals, I will not fail to notice the practical, unglamorous, humble things that need to be done. I want to embrace all that falls across my path: glorious and menial, honorable and simple. Because in the final analysis, it's not all the great things that I've accomplished or not, it's the quality of work, and my performance within the scope for which I am responsible that is important. I would like to hear those words from the lips of Jesus: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of my rest.
During His life, Jesus seemed to move from one task to the next without a lot of discussion about who should do what. The need was present, so He did it: healing the sick, changing water to wine, teaching in the temple. The work ethic He learned working with Joseph in the carpenter shop, served Him well in His work with people and spiritual matters. "Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might." (Ecclesiastes 9:10).
For many years I worked in a teaching hospital. As the new interns came onto the floor in September, the staff used to have conversations about who was "good" and who was not. Some strode about with lordly bearing, uttering great scientific truths about various disease manifestations. There were always nurses who enjoyed debating with them, and equally as many for whom these clear pronouncements seemed to provide a crisp counterpoint for their romantic ambitions.
Other interns were particularly personable and friendly with the nursing staff. They spent adequate time with their patients, but the majority of their time on the units was spent conversing with the nurses. There was often a fair amount of joking and storytelling, many times with risqué comments and sexual innuendo. These relationships helped with staff morale, actually.
Occasionally, interns and residents came through our unit who didn't divide up patient care into your work and our work categories. If a patient told them they were uncomfortable, they didn't call for the nurse. They helped them get comfortable by turning or repositioning the patient themselves. Everything about the patient's wellbeing was important to them--not that they performed every patient care, but the patient's concerns about their family were just as important as deciding medication dosage or starting a vassopressor infusion.
Our chief of staff used to routinely walk through the unit on rounds, picking up little bits of paper and threads on the carpet as he went, never scolding anyone that they were there, but just as part of his duties. As one might guess, he was a meticulous surgeon who noticed cleanliness and order wherever he went. Another physician was concerned about the job satisfaction of the housekeepers and always had a kind word with them on her way through.
The director of the ICU once found himself in a room in which a medical "train wreck" was occurring. Opened cartons of medical instruments and monitoring devices were strewn across the empty bed and floor of the room. Chest tube containers, contaminated gloves and blood-soaked gauze was everywhere. There had been a mad scramble to save this patient's life. After being sure that the medical aspects of the patient's care were addressed, he spoke with each of the nurses to help them debrief. Then he gathered up the trash from all over the room and took it down to the trash chute. Not only did this act give the nurses time and focus they needed, it relieved them of work that would prevent them from keeping up with the rapidly changing status of the dying individual. As the director was leaving the disposal area after dropping off the trash, someone stopped him in the hall to ask where they might find the patient's surgeon. The director gave that information and then the patient's family member asked who he was, since they had seen him back in their loved one's room, working alongside the nurses and residents. He sweetly said, "Today I'm doing lots of things. Right now, I'm the housekeeper."
There are so many things I'd like to accomplish before I die--so many issues to which I'd like to add my voice, programs to design and direct, people to lead, lives to be touched. My hope is that while I am pushing toward my goals, I will not fail to notice the practical, unglamorous, humble things that need to be done. I want to embrace all that falls across my path: glorious and menial, honorable and simple. Because in the final analysis, it's not all the great things that I've accomplished or not, it's the quality of work, and my performance within the scope for which I am responsible that is important. I would like to hear those words from the lips of Jesus: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of my rest.
January 18, 2006
Temptation #2
At the end of His life, Jesus instructed the disciples to pray so that they wouldn't give in to temptation. Here is the second of eleven temptations or tests they, and we, face in this life.
2. The organization is more important than the mission. Getting caught up in the politics of personality rather than focusing on the end goal.
This stems from grappling over who will be the greatest. The greatest in what sphere? Some sort of group or organization that has meaning to the individual.
The disciples were thinking about the Kingdom of God, which they supposed, would be an earthly kingdom, complete with power and jurisdiction over their enemies. As they watched Jesus perform miracles, silence the Pharisees and gather popularity with the people, it was only natural that they should begin to plan how they would fit into the picture. Especially since they comprised the inner circle.
Judas seemed to have more clout than the others because he managed the money they had in common. John, who in his Gospel called himself, "The one the Lord loved," felt a particularly special bond with Jesus and perhaps some entitlement from that. Peter was an active figure in the Gospels. There are stories about Peter that make us roll our eyes: trying to walk on the water, anxiety-driven jabbering at the Transfiguration, slicing off the ear of the high priest's servant. There were James and John, the "Sons of Thunder," whose mother was pushing them to succeed with this new Galilean teacher.
But there they were, arguing about who would be the greatest and trying to exert power and influence over their colleagues. It was easy to become blind to the purpose for which they were called and focus on trying to create something more concrete and practical.
It's interesting to note that the disciples never did move ahead toward their mission until they let go of their focus on the "who's who" of the organization--a lesson that is particularly salient in my life just now. Perhaps my issues are a bit different, but the end result is the same.
It has been very easy to criticize the organization in which I find myself. It is an organization that purports to be more healthy, more spiritual, and more correct than other such entities. I used to view this organization with undimmed admiration, grateful for my place in it. Then I became a therapist and started seeing the seamy underside of major players in it. It was devastating: people abusing their children; clueless administrators placing employees in harm's way; overt obstructions of justice; racist and sexist practices; hackneyed explanations for unhealthy and outdated procedures; affairs between high-powered leaders--you name it--it's all there. In this confusing and disappointing whirl, I began looking at the organization and stopped looking at the mission. It was only natural, and it was maddening.
In fact, I cut ties with the organization for close to a year. I felt that lack of association would remove all traces of the abuses of the system from my psyche. It didn't. It made me bitter, isolated, and inaccessible for two long years.
To trace my path from that point to my current landing place would bore Freud. Suffice it to say, I am now working at a place I said I never would, working with people form whom I said I'd never work, and part of a larger organization that I resented and disparaged for a very long time. And there has been healing of a magnitude that I never imagined possible.
However, my workplace has been a swirl of conflict and sleight of hand; an angry hotbed of passive-aggressive behavior, back-stabbing, sweet trickery. My indignation at the disparity between the espoused ideal and reality kept me focused on personalities and the organization. Partly to survive. Partly out of shock.
Pray that you enter not into temptation. It seems that focusing on the mission of my organization and the spiritual goals for my life, is what Jesus would want for me: a steady look up at Christ and out at the world. What can I do here? How can I serve? Who can my actions and words bless? Am I able to relieve distress and point someone else to look beyond the fragile human experience long enough to recognize that our lives are about God, not about what we see here? The organization can be a tool to achieve these ends. But if, for some reason, it is not, the mission still exists and is mine to follow.
Lord, give me eyes to see beyond my daily life circumstances, and a heart that is so in tune with You that the oddities and troubles of earthly life will not obscure my real purpose on this earth.
2. The organization is more important than the mission. Getting caught up in the politics of personality rather than focusing on the end goal.
This stems from grappling over who will be the greatest. The greatest in what sphere? Some sort of group or organization that has meaning to the individual.
The disciples were thinking about the Kingdom of God, which they supposed, would be an earthly kingdom, complete with power and jurisdiction over their enemies. As they watched Jesus perform miracles, silence the Pharisees and gather popularity with the people, it was only natural that they should begin to plan how they would fit into the picture. Especially since they comprised the inner circle.
Judas seemed to have more clout than the others because he managed the money they had in common. John, who in his Gospel called himself, "The one the Lord loved," felt a particularly special bond with Jesus and perhaps some entitlement from that. Peter was an active figure in the Gospels. There are stories about Peter that make us roll our eyes: trying to walk on the water, anxiety-driven jabbering at the Transfiguration, slicing off the ear of the high priest's servant. There were James and John, the "Sons of Thunder," whose mother was pushing them to succeed with this new Galilean teacher.
But there they were, arguing about who would be the greatest and trying to exert power and influence over their colleagues. It was easy to become blind to the purpose for which they were called and focus on trying to create something more concrete and practical.
It's interesting to note that the disciples never did move ahead toward their mission until they let go of their focus on the "who's who" of the organization--a lesson that is particularly salient in my life just now. Perhaps my issues are a bit different, but the end result is the same.
It has been very easy to criticize the organization in which I find myself. It is an organization that purports to be more healthy, more spiritual, and more correct than other such entities. I used to view this organization with undimmed admiration, grateful for my place in it. Then I became a therapist and started seeing the seamy underside of major players in it. It was devastating: people abusing their children; clueless administrators placing employees in harm's way; overt obstructions of justice; racist and sexist practices; hackneyed explanations for unhealthy and outdated procedures; affairs between high-powered leaders--you name it--it's all there. In this confusing and disappointing whirl, I began looking at the organization and stopped looking at the mission. It was only natural, and it was maddening.
In fact, I cut ties with the organization for close to a year. I felt that lack of association would remove all traces of the abuses of the system from my psyche. It didn't. It made me bitter, isolated, and inaccessible for two long years.
To trace my path from that point to my current landing place would bore Freud. Suffice it to say, I am now working at a place I said I never would, working with people form whom I said I'd never work, and part of a larger organization that I resented and disparaged for a very long time. And there has been healing of a magnitude that I never imagined possible.
However, my workplace has been a swirl of conflict and sleight of hand; an angry hotbed of passive-aggressive behavior, back-stabbing, sweet trickery. My indignation at the disparity between the espoused ideal and reality kept me focused on personalities and the organization. Partly to survive. Partly out of shock.
Jesus was frustrated with the way the disciples behaved: their lack of faith, foolish questions, spiritual ineptitude. Yet He stayed with them, redirecting their attempts and molding them into God-focused, mission-focused people.
Pray that you enter not into temptation. It seems that focusing on the mission of my organization and the spiritual goals for my life, is what Jesus would want for me: a steady look up at Christ and out at the world. What can I do here? How can I serve? Who can my actions and words bless? Am I able to relieve distress and point someone else to look beyond the fragile human experience long enough to recognize that our lives are about God, not about what we see here? The organization can be a tool to achieve these ends. But if, for some reason, it is not, the mission still exists and is mine to follow.
Lord, give me eyes to see beyond my daily life circumstances, and a heart that is so in tune with You that the oddities and troubles of earthly life will not obscure my real purpose on this earth.
January 17, 2006
Ten Temptations From Gethsemane
Garden of GethsemaneJesus said, "Watch and Pray that ye enter not into temptation" (Luke 22:40, KJV). Other versions state, "Pray that you not are not tested, overwhelmed or tempted," won't "fall into temptation" or "give in to temptation."
When I read this, I began to wonder exactly what temptations or tests the disciples should be praying about. If they needed to pray about issues in their lives, living Christ's presence, we certainly do, centuries later.
A close reading of the Gospels helped me to identify 10 issues over which the disciples repeatedly stumbled. Even though Jesus addressed the disciples, there seems to be something in His admonition for Christians in 2006.
1. Who shall be the greatest?
When I think of disciples, I conjure up the image of unshaven, sweaty, loud, overgrown boy types. The bull in the china shop type of men, who can't seem to get anything right. The Bible certainly doesn't portray them as men of refinement or intellect. So it is not surprising to read that during the last meal they were to share with Jesus, they were arguing about who would be in the position of leadership in the New Kingdom. Or, perhaps, they were setting up some type of disciple pecking order. In any event, the Gospels record this type of exchange between the disciples several times.
Mark 9 is the story of Jesus freeing a young man from an evil spirit. The disciples were there, watching. As they left, Jesus told them that He would be killed and that He would rise on the third day. Even in the face of these thought provoking events, the disciples began to argue about who would be the greatest as they walked on their way.
When they arrived at Capernaum, Jesus asked them what they were arguing about. They were silent in embarrassment. Jesus pointed out that achieving stature in the new kingdom meant serving the most. Then, as if to quash the images the disciples were forming about community service campaigns for the purpose of becoming the greatest, Jesus picked up a small child and held her in His arms. "When you welcome even a child because of me, you welcome Me." (Mark 9:37, Contemporary English Version).
At that moment, power and political esteem ceased to be the standard by which people judged their importance. In fact, importance had nothing to do with being seen and known by God. Warm inclusion of the unimportant people in the world was the new standard. There was no use for any high flown self conceptualizations. A child judges whether they are received and accepted by the look in one's eyes, the tone of voice, and an attitude of warmth. And it is precisely those things that are more valuable to God than any position of leadership or social standing.
I believe with all my heart that God has given gifts to all people on the earth, and that those gifts vary in type and amount. They are for us to enjoy and bless the earth with. I have been inspired and comforted by the leadership others have demonstrated. Some people are visionaries, dreaming up all sorts of maverick ideas. Some have built empires on personal power and their ability to communicate with others. Others have accomplished amazing feats of faith by creating organizations out of nothing. But the people I have felt the closest to, and who I try to surround myself with, are those with whom my heart feels at rest--people with the kind faces and gentle dispositions.
Jesus was a leader who built an organization out of nothing. Reading over the Gospel record of His foresight and wisdom, how He negotiated the Pharisees and Saducees, leaves me amazed. The miracles, strength in resisting the devil, and responding to trick questions, are all things I admire and would like to be able to do. But when people talk about Jesus, it is usually His warmth and kindness, grace and mercy, and love for imperfect people that are the most attractive about Him.
The elucidation of this first temptation is not for the benefit of readers. It is for me. I like being admired for being smart, articulate, or for having wonderful ideas and drive. However, these are not qualities that necessarily make a person feel closer to me or more valuable in the whole scheme of things. The comment made by a nine-year-old boy more closely hits the target: "You treat me like I'm real, Barbara."
May I learn and aspire to God's standard of greatness.
January 11, 2006
Snow Rollers
A couple years ago, I woke up to find snow rollers all over the hillsides around my house. These giant, tumbling snowballs, were the product of high winds and wet snow. They are formed during only very specific (and rare) weather patterns. All of the wide open spaces in town were littered with giant balls of snow. Snow rollers can be as small as a beer can and as large as a travel trunk, depending on wind velocity. The one in this picture is about the size of a basketball. It's just another of nature's interesting phenomena.
January 10, 2006
Absent Minded Professor
It finally happened. This morning as I was getting ready to leave the house I paused to look, really look, at myself in the mirror. My hair seemed a bit chanticleer-esque and I'd forgotten to put on lipstick. The top button on my shirt wasn't all the way through the buttonhole, but I was gratified to see that the shirt at least hung straight. With a start, I realized that my pants were highwaters--something I'd never noticed before, even after wearing them many times in the last few months. When did that happen? And the toes of my shoes were scuffed. These are the shoes that are so sensible that I wore them through Europe two summers ago and can't bear to part with them. So on rainy days I have an excuse to wear them. My trouser socks were navy and I could see the blue in them against the black of my pants.
I had thrown on my raincoat--one I found at an outlet mall at least eight years ago. I found myself looking critically at it to see if it was out of style or not. I couldn't tell. Besides, I like that coat.
Suddenly I started laughing. My mind went back to those long nursing lectures at Cal State, where Karen and I sat with eyes glazed over, trying to pay attention. One thing that frequently occupied our attention was the game we played in Dr. X's class. She had recently moved from a Midwest state and had a stunning reputation as a researcher. But she looked like she couldn't dress herself, and her hair was a picture. It was thin and mousy, clinging to the sides of her head. She didn't wear makeup at first or dress up very much until apparently, someone whispered something to her. She suddenly started wearing bright-colored suits and heels. But her hair never did much of anything positive for her. Karen and I used to sit at our desks during her lectures, studying her features. On the side of our notes, we'd draw hairstyles that we thought would be good for her to try. Some were ridiculous, like beehives and French Twists, while others were cute little flippy styles. There were times that we were nearly hysterical with laughter from the comments and pictures we produced on this theme.
From Dr. X's class, we went into our stats course with Dr. P. He had such a heavy accent that we could hardly understand him--and I'm good at understanding accented English. His hair was pasted to his head and he wore highwaters. One pant leg was higher than the other, and we could see stitches on the outside where someone had roughly basted up the hems. It was almost more than we could bear, day after day, with that brilliant but incomprehensible, bedraggled little man. One religion professor never buttoned his shirt sleeves--ever. They flapped about as he spoke, sometimes working up to his elbow on one arm, whilst the other hung limply almost down to his fingers.
We passed our classes with flying colors, but we often talked about people who were so smart that they could hardly tie their own shoes.
When I looked in the mirror this morning it struck me that perhaps this had happened to me! Ten years ago I would have rather died than look like I did this morning. I used to be such a clothes horse. I love dressing to kill, but rarely have I thought that my clothes caused pain!
My sister recently told me that she loves being the eccentric oddball professor, sweeping into her office in a black coat that almost touches the floor, and with a black hat pulled down over her head so that she looks like a rabbi. She says that every time she looks at her dissertation and what it costs her, she feels that deserves to be whatever kind of mad professor she chooses to be.
Me, too. I shall glory in the remaining fashion sense I possess and try to look my best every day. Hopefully the fashion statement I make will be a victorious declaration and not a yelp.
I had thrown on my raincoat--one I found at an outlet mall at least eight years ago. I found myself looking critically at it to see if it was out of style or not. I couldn't tell. Besides, I like that coat.
Suddenly I started laughing. My mind went back to those long nursing lectures at Cal State, where Karen and I sat with eyes glazed over, trying to pay attention. One thing that frequently occupied our attention was the game we played in Dr. X's class. She had recently moved from a Midwest state and had a stunning reputation as a researcher. But she looked like she couldn't dress herself, and her hair was a picture. It was thin and mousy, clinging to the sides of her head. She didn't wear makeup at first or dress up very much until apparently, someone whispered something to her. She suddenly started wearing bright-colored suits and heels. But her hair never did much of anything positive for her. Karen and I used to sit at our desks during her lectures, studying her features. On the side of our notes, we'd draw hairstyles that we thought would be good for her to try. Some were ridiculous, like beehives and French Twists, while others were cute little flippy styles. There were times that we were nearly hysterical with laughter from the comments and pictures we produced on this theme.
From Dr. X's class, we went into our stats course with Dr. P. He had such a heavy accent that we could hardly understand him--and I'm good at understanding accented English. His hair was pasted to his head and he wore highwaters. One pant leg was higher than the other, and we could see stitches on the outside where someone had roughly basted up the hems. It was almost more than we could bear, day after day, with that brilliant but incomprehensible, bedraggled little man. One religion professor never buttoned his shirt sleeves--ever. They flapped about as he spoke, sometimes working up to his elbow on one arm, whilst the other hung limply almost down to his fingers.
We passed our classes with flying colors, but we often talked about people who were so smart that they could hardly tie their own shoes.
When I looked in the mirror this morning it struck me that perhaps this had happened to me! Ten years ago I would have rather died than look like I did this morning. I used to be such a clothes horse. I love dressing to kill, but rarely have I thought that my clothes caused pain!
My sister recently told me that she loves being the eccentric oddball professor, sweeping into her office in a black coat that almost touches the floor, and with a black hat pulled down over her head so that she looks like a rabbi. She says that every time she looks at her dissertation and what it costs her, she feels that deserves to be whatever kind of mad professor she chooses to be.
Me, too. I shall glory in the remaining fashion sense I possess and try to look my best every day. Hopefully the fashion statement I make will be a victorious declaration and not a yelp.
January 9, 2006
Home
I miss my house. My house. We sold it over a year ago. It was full of sweat equity--new bathroom, all newly painted rooms, carpet torn up to show hardwood floors in the bedrooms, painted basement, landscaped yard and tons of demolition and tree removal in the back yard. This house was right across from a middle school, where we could walk on the track. Our street was nestled between two impressive boulevards full of beautifully maintained Victorian homes. We walked up and down those streets almost every day.It was ours. I really miss my house that felt like home.
January 5, 2006
Not all there
I had a medical procedure on Tuesday. It was a big deal for me, since I just hate it when I have to be bothered with the inconvenience of hospitals, tests and doctor visits. The nurse put an IV in my hand and wheeled me into the procedure room. It was like diving into a blue-green pond: cold, dark, and very subdued. I got positioned on the table and the doctor chatted with me for a couple minutes while he tried to push the medication into my IV without my knowing it--as if I would get that warm, heavy feeling for no reason at all!
Anyhow, it felt just absolutely marvelous--warm, heavy, soft. I commented on how wonderful it was. The nurses and doctor smiled knowingly. Wanting to add a superlative, I began to say more but midway through the sentence my brain gave out and my subconscious took over. "Wow! That's better than eggnog!" The last thing I heard was the nurse cracking up and saying off in the distance, "I've never heard that before!" I woke up in the recovery room. Funny thing though, I don't like eggnog.
That wasn't the first time my mouth engaged without my brain. I once worked a double shift and came home to drop into a deep sleep. My friend, Sarah, planned to call me at 1:00 p.m. to see when we could leave for a shopping trip. That would give me five hours to sleep before our outing. When she called, I was aware that the phone had rung and woke up enough to answer it. She wondered if she had wakened me and I protested that in fact, I had been awake all along. I don't know why, but I've always done that when I'm awakened out of a deep sleep. As Sarah began telling me which mall she should like to visit, the "lights" went out. She must have asked me something then, like, what time would I be ready for her to pick me up. I don't remember what she said, only that there was a silence and I felt compelled to respond to an unknown question. I have a vague recollection of saying, "I don't think I can go; I have to get all my teeth pulled this afternoon."
There was a stunned silence. In a voice full of concern and consideration for my altered state, Sarah reassured me that we could go shopping another time and that perhaps I should just rest for awhile.
I don't remember hanging up the phone but five minutes later I woke up with a start as I realized what I'd said to her. I have no idea where this thing about teeth came from, but there it was.
I wonder if this kind of mental disconnect is what people feel like when they have brain surgery or strokes. I recall taking care of a man, fresh out of brain surgery, who responded to all my inquires with, "Whining, twining...whining, twining." This was all he said for two days. It was as if he had some broken links somewhere--which, I suppose he had. At first he had no idea his words were inappropriate, but by the second day he was in despair. The third day dawned and he could say his name, "Yes" and "No."
Our mental wiring never ceases to amaze me--even though there are days when mine is loose.
Anyhow, it felt just absolutely marvelous--warm, heavy, soft. I commented on how wonderful it was. The nurses and doctor smiled knowingly. Wanting to add a superlative, I began to say more but midway through the sentence my brain gave out and my subconscious took over. "Wow! That's better than eggnog!" The last thing I heard was the nurse cracking up and saying off in the distance, "I've never heard that before!" I woke up in the recovery room. Funny thing though, I don't like eggnog.
That wasn't the first time my mouth engaged without my brain. I once worked a double shift and came home to drop into a deep sleep. My friend, Sarah, planned to call me at 1:00 p.m. to see when we could leave for a shopping trip. That would give me five hours to sleep before our outing. When she called, I was aware that the phone had rung and woke up enough to answer it. She wondered if she had wakened me and I protested that in fact, I had been awake all along. I don't know why, but I've always done that when I'm awakened out of a deep sleep. As Sarah began telling me which mall she should like to visit, the "lights" went out. She must have asked me something then, like, what time would I be ready for her to pick me up. I don't remember what she said, only that there was a silence and I felt compelled to respond to an unknown question. I have a vague recollection of saying, "I don't think I can go; I have to get all my teeth pulled this afternoon."
There was a stunned silence. In a voice full of concern and consideration for my altered state, Sarah reassured me that we could go shopping another time and that perhaps I should just rest for awhile.
I don't remember hanging up the phone but five minutes later I woke up with a start as I realized what I'd said to her. I have no idea where this thing about teeth came from, but there it was.
I wonder if this kind of mental disconnect is what people feel like when they have brain surgery or strokes. I recall taking care of a man, fresh out of brain surgery, who responded to all my inquires with, "Whining, twining...whining, twining." This was all he said for two days. It was as if he had some broken links somewhere--which, I suppose he had. At first he had no idea his words were inappropriate, but by the second day he was in despair. The third day dawned and he could say his name, "Yes" and "No."
Our mental wiring never ceases to amaze me--even though there are days when mine is loose.
January 3, 2006
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer
Today is Miss Sawyer's birthday. Although she died at least 20 years ago, I think of her every year on January 3rd. You see, Miss Sawyer was my first teacher and she was not someone that one could easily forget.
People I grew up with in Upstate New York, who are 20 years older than I, were taught by Miss Sawyer. And they thought she was "ancient" when they had her. I was in her last class before she finally retired. She was ageless. One would have to be to teach grades 1-4 in a two room schoolhouse for 30 years in a little town with few social outlets for a single woman.
Anna Sawyer came from a family in rural Maine and had a bit of a twangy "Nah-easten" accent. She grew up on a farm with a horse named Old Nell, who, she reported on more than one occasion, could run a mile a minute. We all wished we'd grown up on a farm and had such a swell old horse and buggy.
Miss Sawyer never married. She was a bit awkward and standoffish, and definitely a no-nonsense woman, but I looked forward to seeing her every day. When I got the mumps in October, she came to the house to bring me my homework and I cried when I saw her. I think I made a scene in front of my mother because I wanted to be allowed to go back to school to be with Miss Sawyer and all my friends. There is no substitute in all of life for that trusting, unabashed admiration a child feels for her teacher.
Our school was really a remodeled two-story house. Grades 1-4 were upstairs in the room with the slanted ceilings and the coatroom that was like a dark little cave. We had wooden floors that creaked, so we couldn't sneak to the bathroom when Miss Sawyer's back was to us. Besides, the bathroom was right in the front of the classroom, even though it had a little partition in front of the door for privacy. We never cared about that. When we could watch Jodie or Berniece pee their pants right in their seats, privacy did not carry a high premium.
We had a huge lawn to play on. It was an entire city block. On one side of the schoolhouse it was all grass where we played Dodgeball. On the other side of the schoolhouse was where we played baseball and two-hand touch football--at least, that's what the older students played. We played on the grassy slope.
Miss Sawyer used to become quite upset when the town doctor's boxer dog got loose and chased us around the playground. He was a randy sort, humping on any child's leg who stood still enough for him to get ahold of. Within seconds, Miss Sawyer would fly out of the schoolhouse brandishing a carton of ground black pepper. Her theory was that if she could just shake some of it on his nose, he'd receive enough negative reinforcement that he'd stop harrassing us. Instead, Boxer would go loping off in circles around a red-faced Miss Sawyer running in high speed behind him, her dress rippling in the wind against her long spindly legs as she ran. We would laugh and imitate her expression of righteous indignation and her ridiculous appearnce charging across the lawn. Boxer thought there never was such a fine game as being chased by Miss Sawyer. I don't think the pepper ever connected with his nose.
She was, I suppose, what some would call a classic old maid. She was abrupt sometimes, and a little off, socially, and she kept to herself a lot of the time. Miss Sawyer wasn't good with students who were out of the mainstream: she taunted my brother, who has a learning disability, and with her yardstick she often threatened a thin, sickly boy who always fell asleep in class. She slapped my face one time when I couldn't recite the colors in the rainbow, even though I was probably one of her favorite students. By today's standards, she would have been fired. I know my parents had words with her about my brother. But in those days, given the values and expectations for teachers, she was still considered a good teacher, and there was something about her that made me love being in school.
I remember hearing women in our church comment on her hair. She had hair--that was all that mattered to me as a child. Apparently though, she had a perm but never combed it out or styled it. So her head was a collection of discrete grey corkscrew curls with no sense of organization, plan, or collaboration. She wore long filmy light-colored dresses with nude colored stockings, and in her bosom she always kept a handkerchief with which to blow her nose.
There were two parts of Miss Sawyer's body that I admired like few other things in my young life at that time: her nose and her upper arms. With one smooth movement, she could reach into her dress for her handkerchief and blow her nose with one hand. As she blew into the handkerchief, she would twist her nose first to one side and then to the other, as if it had no cartilage in it whatsoever. Paul and I tried to do it once at recess and he got a bloody nose.
Miss Sawyer's upper arms had a most arresting swing to them when she wrote longhand on the board during penmanship. They fairly danced to and fro, happily jiggling with every loop of cursive writing she produced. Nancy, Olive and I had contests to see whose upper arm could jiggle like Miss Sawyer's but we never could do it right. It's only now that I recognize that unfortunate quality in my own arms.
My favorite thing about Miss Sawyer was that she loved Jesus with all her heart. And I knew that because of the stories she used to tell us for our devotional first thing in the morning. When it was time for Bible class, she would teach us things about the Bible and God.
I have an indellible image of her in my mind's eye--one that I see whenever anyone mentions her name. She is standing there by my desk, holding the huge Webster's unabridged dictionary in her hands and telling us about how everything we do is written in the books in heaven. And how one day when Jesus comes, He will open the books and see if our sins have been blotted out. If they are, we will go into heaven for eternity (Daniel 7:10). And here is where Anna, the spinster teacher from Maine, became an actress without equal.
"And Satan will say, "She can't go into heaven. I got her to pull her brother's hair and disobey her mother. Look in the book--it's all there."
And Jesus will open up the book (she opens the dictionary and holds it aloft, her finger pointing to something on the page. We all strain our necks to see what she is pointing at) and He will say, "There's her name, right here. And it does say she did those mean things.""
We hold our breath, awaiting the fearful pronouncement that we had lost heaven forever.
"Jesus will turn to God and will show Him the book. And there, right over her name is a drop of blood from Jesus that shows that He died for her sins. Her sins have been blotted out! He'll show God the nailprints in His hands and say, "My blood, Father, My blood." And God says, "Your sacrifice is sufficient." And He turns to you, Barbara, and says, "Come ye blessed into the kingdom prepared for you.""
And Miss Sawyer's eyes would swim with tears and we could see that she meant what she was telling us more than anything else she had taught us in school--ever.
So today is really a special day, one that I never expected to remember for the rest of my life. But it is my teacher's birthday. Now that I'm a teacher myself, I know how it matters to be remembered.
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer.
His sacrifice is sufficient for you, and your gift of love and service for us was more than sufficient. Rest well until He comes for you. Then we shall both hear, "Come ye blessed into My Kingdom."
I'll be waiting for you.
People I grew up with in Upstate New York, who are 20 years older than I, were taught by Miss Sawyer. And they thought she was "ancient" when they had her. I was in her last class before she finally retired. She was ageless. One would have to be to teach grades 1-4 in a two room schoolhouse for 30 years in a little town with few social outlets for a single woman.
Anna Sawyer came from a family in rural Maine and had a bit of a twangy "Nah-easten" accent. She grew up on a farm with a horse named Old Nell, who, she reported on more than one occasion, could run a mile a minute. We all wished we'd grown up on a farm and had such a swell old horse and buggy.
Miss Sawyer never married. She was a bit awkward and standoffish, and definitely a no-nonsense woman, but I looked forward to seeing her every day. When I got the mumps in October, she came to the house to bring me my homework and I cried when I saw her. I think I made a scene in front of my mother because I wanted to be allowed to go back to school to be with Miss Sawyer and all my friends. There is no substitute in all of life for that trusting, unabashed admiration a child feels for her teacher.
Our school was really a remodeled two-story house. Grades 1-4 were upstairs in the room with the slanted ceilings and the coatroom that was like a dark little cave. We had wooden floors that creaked, so we couldn't sneak to the bathroom when Miss Sawyer's back was to us. Besides, the bathroom was right in the front of the classroom, even though it had a little partition in front of the door for privacy. We never cared about that. When we could watch Jodie or Berniece pee their pants right in their seats, privacy did not carry a high premium.
We had a huge lawn to play on. It was an entire city block. On one side of the schoolhouse it was all grass where we played Dodgeball. On the other side of the schoolhouse was where we played baseball and two-hand touch football--at least, that's what the older students played. We played on the grassy slope.
Miss Sawyer used to become quite upset when the town doctor's boxer dog got loose and chased us around the playground. He was a randy sort, humping on any child's leg who stood still enough for him to get ahold of. Within seconds, Miss Sawyer would fly out of the schoolhouse brandishing a carton of ground black pepper. Her theory was that if she could just shake some of it on his nose, he'd receive enough negative reinforcement that he'd stop harrassing us. Instead, Boxer would go loping off in circles around a red-faced Miss Sawyer running in high speed behind him, her dress rippling in the wind against her long spindly legs as she ran. We would laugh and imitate her expression of righteous indignation and her ridiculous appearnce charging across the lawn. Boxer thought there never was such a fine game as being chased by Miss Sawyer. I don't think the pepper ever connected with his nose.
She was, I suppose, what some would call a classic old maid. She was abrupt sometimes, and a little off, socially, and she kept to herself a lot of the time. Miss Sawyer wasn't good with students who were out of the mainstream: she taunted my brother, who has a learning disability, and with her yardstick she often threatened a thin, sickly boy who always fell asleep in class. She slapped my face one time when I couldn't recite the colors in the rainbow, even though I was probably one of her favorite students. By today's standards, she would have been fired. I know my parents had words with her about my brother. But in those days, given the values and expectations for teachers, she was still considered a good teacher, and there was something about her that made me love being in school.
I remember hearing women in our church comment on her hair. She had hair--that was all that mattered to me as a child. Apparently though, she had a perm but never combed it out or styled it. So her head was a collection of discrete grey corkscrew curls with no sense of organization, plan, or collaboration. She wore long filmy light-colored dresses with nude colored stockings, and in her bosom she always kept a handkerchief with which to blow her nose.
There were two parts of Miss Sawyer's body that I admired like few other things in my young life at that time: her nose and her upper arms. With one smooth movement, she could reach into her dress for her handkerchief and blow her nose with one hand. As she blew into the handkerchief, she would twist her nose first to one side and then to the other, as if it had no cartilage in it whatsoever. Paul and I tried to do it once at recess and he got a bloody nose.
Miss Sawyer's upper arms had a most arresting swing to them when she wrote longhand on the board during penmanship. They fairly danced to and fro, happily jiggling with every loop of cursive writing she produced. Nancy, Olive and I had contests to see whose upper arm could jiggle like Miss Sawyer's but we never could do it right. It's only now that I recognize that unfortunate quality in my own arms.
My favorite thing about Miss Sawyer was that she loved Jesus with all her heart. And I knew that because of the stories she used to tell us for our devotional first thing in the morning. When it was time for Bible class, she would teach us things about the Bible and God.
I have an indellible image of her in my mind's eye--one that I see whenever anyone mentions her name. She is standing there by my desk, holding the huge Webster's unabridged dictionary in her hands and telling us about how everything we do is written in the books in heaven. And how one day when Jesus comes, He will open the books and see if our sins have been blotted out. If they are, we will go into heaven for eternity (Daniel 7:10). And here is where Anna, the spinster teacher from Maine, became an actress without equal.
"And Satan will say, "She can't go into heaven. I got her to pull her brother's hair and disobey her mother. Look in the book--it's all there."
And Jesus will open up the book (she opens the dictionary and holds it aloft, her finger pointing to something on the page. We all strain our necks to see what she is pointing at) and He will say, "There's her name, right here. And it does say she did those mean things.""
We hold our breath, awaiting the fearful pronouncement that we had lost heaven forever.
"Jesus will turn to God and will show Him the book. And there, right over her name is a drop of blood from Jesus that shows that He died for her sins. Her sins have been blotted out! He'll show God the nailprints in His hands and say, "My blood, Father, My blood." And God says, "Your sacrifice is sufficient." And He turns to you, Barbara, and says, "Come ye blessed into the kingdom prepared for you.""
And Miss Sawyer's eyes would swim with tears and we could see that she meant what she was telling us more than anything else she had taught us in school--ever.
So today is really a special day, one that I never expected to remember for the rest of my life. But it is my teacher's birthday. Now that I'm a teacher myself, I know how it matters to be remembered.
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer.
His sacrifice is sufficient for you, and your gift of love and service for us was more than sufficient. Rest well until He comes for you. Then we shall both hear, "Come ye blessed into My Kingdom."
I'll be waiting for you.
January 1, 2006
Happy New Year
This morning at 12:10 a.m., the neighbor kids started shooting off Roman Candles about 30 feet from our bedroom. I realized quickly that I'm a lot older than I thought I was.
This morning, rolling my tired, middle aged body out of bed, I wondered what the most important thing might be to write about on this auspicious day. This entry will be brief--just one comment that I want to make. What came to mind was a statement by one of the founders of my church: "We have nothing to fear for the future except we forget how the Lord has lead us in the past." I hope that I, and anyone else reading this, will recognize and not forget God's goodness, leading and blessings they have already enjoyed. Many blessings to you on this new beginning of our New Year.
This morning, rolling my tired, middle aged body out of bed, I wondered what the most important thing might be to write about on this auspicious day. This entry will be brief--just one comment that I want to make. What came to mind was a statement by one of the founders of my church: "We have nothing to fear for the future except we forget how the Lord has lead us in the past." I hope that I, and anyone else reading this, will recognize and not forget God's goodness, leading and blessings they have already enjoyed. Many blessings to you on this new beginning of our New Year.
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